I Know Why the Caged Redhead Sings
by madame.alexandra
Summary: There is a threat to Jenny's life. Jethro and a merry band of agents protect her. Sinister things happen. Unforseen things as well. Story ends. A play on the Maya Angelou poem; the title chapters are lines from it. Because I think I'm clever. JIBBS. M.
1. Her Feet are Tied

_A/N: __Welcome to another of my literary puns that includes fun with Jibbs. Why does the caged redhead sing, indeed?_  
_Simle plot: There is a threat to Jenny's life. Jethro and a merry band of agents protect her. Sinister things happen. Unforseen things as well. Story ends. I'm back._  
_Read on._

* * *

**"Her Feet are Tied" [One]**

The Director of NCIS sighed pointedly.

In the front seat of the armored black suburban, two suited agents, Special Agent Stan Kowalski and Special Agent Sydney Carton, gave each other brief, uncomfortable/apprehensive looks. Things boded well for no one—particularly them—when the headstrong redhead started vocalizing her opinion via loaded sighs.

Said redhead, quite sharply aware of her surroundings, did not miss the look her protection detail shared, and was sure to focus a narrow, rude glare on them unbeknownst to them before she returned to re-arranging the dates and appointments on her fashionable PDA.

Jennifer Shepard was currently not speaking to either of the big guys she usually got on pretty well with. Aside from the fact that they more often than not attempted to treat her like an intelligence-challenged five-year-old, she rather liked Carton and Kowalski and referred to them frequently by their given names.

At this point in time, though, the bastards had forsaken that honor in favor of _overreacting_. Meaning: She had been packing up her things neatly, eager to get home and relax in her study, when the two of them had calmly informed her that, in light of recent security breaches and an increase of threats, she was not allowed at her own house and was being transported to a safe house for the time being.

To say she was displeased with this turn of events was like saying World War two was just a little skirmish. She failed to see why, simply because a few people didn't like her assertive anti-terrorism programs and vocals on Capitol Hill, she had to be uprooted from her very likeable residence and sequestered away.

Thus, she sat stiffly and silently in the back seat after being quite nearly dragged from the NCIS premises, PDA in hand, blackberry on her knee, fuming wordlessly and refusing to speak. She couldn't even see out the damn windows of this…_hearse_.

Hmm. Perhaps _hearse_ was an overdramatic description.

Regardless. She was being forced to postpone meetings, cancel lunches, and push back budget negotiations just because there happened to have been a security breach in which someone had sent a recorded tape to her security team and described to them exactly what she was doing in her house while she was doing it.

Jenny tried not to consider the fact that the aforementioned occurrence had in fact occurred once a day for a week, and it was starting to make her uneasy. She preferred to ignore the feeling of fear that sent chills down her spine and growl about the overprotective situation she was being trapped in.

_Safe house_.

She scoffed quietly under her breath, and noticed Kowalski and Carton exchange another apprehensive look.

They were going to die if they kept doing that as if she didn't notice.

"We can feel your animosity, Director," Carton announced suddenly.

"I am very glad my efforts to make you feel disliked are not going unrewarded," she responded icily.

"It is for your own safety, Ma'am," he attempted.

"That, Agent Carton, is what I have a gun for."

"A gun won't help you if some maniac blows up your house," Kowalski remarked mildly.

"What would we do without the almighty genius of your input, Stan?" snapped Jenny.

"She's in a bad mood," Kowalski remarked solemnly to Carton. Carton grinned. Jenny glared at them, raining down silent curses upon their heads as they attempted to lighten the atmosphere. Humor was going to get them nowhere. The two smug idiots simultaneously refused to tell her to which safe house she was being taken _and_ deprived her of a peaceful evening reading over mission reports in her luxurious bath.

She glanced up through her eyelashes, closing the calendar on her PDA. She crossed her legs rigidly and eyed the back of Kowalski's head suspiciously.

"Do you have reason to believe someone is going to incinerate my house?" she asked through gritted teeth. The offhand comment concerned her. _She_ had heard no threats to turn her house into a mushroom cloud, but if _they_ had, she'd like to be prepared.

"Now that we have your fearful attention…" began Carton wryly.

Jenny narrowed her eyes.

"The two of you are infantile," she decided in a growl, turning her nose up and her eyes towards the darkly tinted windows. She compressed her lips and squinted, trying to discern where they were going. She was having a hard time doing so, considering the ridiculous tint, and gave a small noise of discontent.

Kowalski and Carton had barely given her time to throw a toothbrush in a bag before they ushered her away from her house, leaving her third security man—usually the one on the prowl at night—Robbie Turner to lurk around her house for a while.

She was used to threats. Every high profile government official got them. Receiving them via detailed recording of her activities was daunting, but she loathed being sheltered in this way and she despised the idea of anyone thinking she was hiding.

It also annoyed her that whoever was behind this had not only pulled off leaving no forensic evidence on his tapes, envelopes, or stamps, but had apparently managed to observe her doings in her brownstone right under the nose of the very security guards who claimed to be protecting her.

_Shmucks_.

The fading daylight outside was negatively contributing to her ability to see where they were heading, and after a moment, she broke her silence, unable to stomach being kept in the dark (literally and figuratively) about her temporary residence any longer.

"Where exactly is this safe house, if I may ask?" she inquired tightly.

"It's best if we don't disclose the exact location."

"Dammit, Kowalski," she growled.

"For your safety, Director," Carton repeated, for the five millionth time today.

"And if I get lost on the way there because no one will tell me where it is?"

"Don't be silly, ma'am, one of us will be driving you at all times."

Jenny glared.

It seemed as if they'd been driving for half an hour, but knowing those two, they had simply taken some odd, unique route to be safe, or just drive around for a few minutes so she wouldn't guess a location. She knew any drive anywhere in DC pretty impressively well.

Her two goons fell silent, until Kowalski muttered something affirmative and the car slowed as they turned into a driveway. Jenny narrowed her eyes pointedly, still attempting to make out her surroundings.

"Why didn't you just blindfold me?" she asked balefully, almost under her breath.

"We can't have too much fun on the job, it's against the rules," Carton responded cheerily. Both of them unbuckled, Kowalski killed the engine, and their doors opened in tandem as they got out.

Jenny undid her own seatbelt and waited stubbornly in the backseat. They tended to get antsy if she tried to let herself out of the car. Sighing tiredly, Jenny brushed a few stray hairs from her forehead and swallowed, desperately wishing she had the chance to just curl up in her own familiar bed.

Carton opened the door and Kowalski glanced around on the other side importantly.

Jenny lifted her head and took in her what she could see of her surroundings.

Her eyes narrowed, her mouth went dry, and her heart pretty much refused to continue beating once she realized the house they had brought her to contained a bed that was probably about as familiar as her own was.

She shook her head and froze, turning threatening a look on the bodyguards.

"You have got to be kidding me."

* * *

It was no secret to Leroy Jethro Gibbs that high profile jobs came with threats and security issues. That threats against Jenny had escalated to the point of this kind of seriousness angered him, even in light of their somewhat precariously cordial relationship.

When Agent Kowalski and Agent Carton had informed him of what was going on, he had immediately set Abby on the tapes and any letters/e-mails that may be connected with them. As irritating as it was that Jenny was on her high horse twenty-four-seven, he did not want anyone to shoot her down.

Her security team had decided it was best she be kept from her house for the next few days so they could strip it down, search for bugs, and install a fancy guard system, in the meantime hopefully making leeway on the case of who the hell was watching her so closely.

They wanted her close to work, somewhere familiar and easily accessible, and somewhere safe that would require no extra vetting. That was precisely why Gibbs had spent two hours of his work morning going over security details and contingency plans for his house.

Therefore, he was expecting Agent Kowalski when the man walked down the basement stairs and cleared his throat.

Gibbs paused in sanding and looked up, eyeing the other agent carefully.

"The Director refuses to get out of the car," Kowalski announced bluntly.

Gibbs prevented himself from grinning. How original of Jen to simply refuse to get out of the car because she didn't want to be here. As tense as things had been between them since she landed the job as Director, Gibbs couldn't help but relish the idea of being in charge of a captive Jenny Shepard.

He gave a shrug.

"Lock her in."

"Excuse me?"

Gibbs glared at Kowalski pointedly.

"Do I stutter?"

Kowalski stared at him, giving Agent Carton time to hop halfway down the stairs.

"She threatened to castrate me again," he muttered to his partner.

Gibbs snorted under her breath.

"Agent Gibbs wants us to lock her in the SUV," Kowalski informed Carton solemnly. Carton looked at Gibbs with surprise. Gibbs continued sanding as if nothing odd was going on.

"That won't make her come out," Carton said. "It will just piss her off."

"It's November," Gibbs growled. "It's cold. She'll freeze, and she'll want out," he said calmly, fairly positive Jenny would not hold out longer than ten minutes if they locked her in with leather-interior in Washington DC's winter.

Carton grinned. The agents traipsed back up the stairs dutifully.

Gibbs turned away from the boat and poured a mason jar of bourbon.

It was going to be a long 'unspecified amount of time'.

* * *

She felt it was very underhanded and rude to _freeze_ her into agreeing to coming inside Gibb's house.

Regardless of how she felt about it, she was here, perched on his living room couch like someone's errant teenage daughter, while Gibbs stared at her and Kowalski and Carton outlined her rules for the next few days.

She hoped they were having fun pretending they were secret service agents. She was busy ignoring them while she glared through narrowed eyes at her former partner, ex-lover, and the general bane of her NCIS existence.

He was enjoying this way too much. Sure, he was glaring at her with that no-nonsense, spooky, bad ass glare, and yes, he looked stern and foreboding, but she knew that behind those icy blue eyes he was laughing his ass off while she was plotting to personally kick it.

These so-called security precautions were ridiculous. They didn't want her out past midnight. They wanted her in contact with as few people as possible. They wanted her—

"What?" she asked sharply, turning a fearsome glare on Agent Carton.

"Your blackberry, Director. We want to see if it's been tapped. You can have it back when it's cleared."

"How long is that going to take, Sydney?" she asked, lifting her eyebrows. He better have a very good answer.

"Forty-eight hours at the most."

"No."

"We've told Miss Sciuto to put a rush on it, as you need it—"

"I certainly do need it," Jenny interrupted tightly. "Perhaps you haven't noticed that I run a federal agency via my blackberry. I can be reached on it—and _only_ on it—by several high ranking government officials including the President. Now. Would you care to run your demand by me again?"

She glared at Carton. He glanced at Agent Kowalski and then gave her a small shrug.

"I still have to take it from you."

Jenny grit her teeth unhappily and stiffly handed over her precious sleek blackberry, biting her tongue as Kowalski took it and promptly placed a much more primitive cellular device in her palm.

She arched an eyebrow.

"Are you mocking me, Stan?"

"No ma'am," he answered seriously, smirking just a little. "That's a burn phone. A select few people have the number. Do not make calls on it or give the number out. It is solely to communicate with us should an issue arise—"

"I am familiar with the function of burn phones. I became very cozy with them in my undercover work."

Carton nodded curtly.

"Do you have any questions, ma'am?" he asked curiously.

She gave him a look.

"Actually, don't answer that," Kowalski said wryly, inclining his head. He exchanged a look with Gibbs and moved away. "Carton and I are going to settle for the night in our positions. She's all yours, Agent Gibbs."

Gibbs nodded, starting forward to follow them out. He paused, off the right of Jenny, planted near her as he watched the bodyguards leave.

"Cronies," Jenny called mildly, running her thumb over the phone she'd been given. She looked up, intending to look back at them, but she caught Gibbs' eye instead, and was hooked.

"Director?"

"I do have one question. Did Robbie find anything at my house?" she posed offhandedly, her eyes on Gibbs. She tried to ignore the chill that scrambled up her spine and all under her skin when she thought of how invasively the tapes implied she'd been watched lately.

There was the briefest hesitation from her two well-meaning goons. Then:

"No. Not yet."

She nodded, and swallowed, her eyes still on Gibbs. She heard them leave, and she was still staring at him even after they were left alone.

Stuck in this house, with him whom she'd left so abruptly and so underhandedly six years ago, she had a hard time deciding if she'd rather be watched by his hard eyes or the eyes of some unknown stalker.

* * *

"Perimeter secured."

Leroy Jethro Gibbs answered curtly to affirm he was aware of the statement, and hung up his cell phone, tossing it amongst his tools and mason jars. He eyed his Sig Sauer possessively and turned back to the boat; listening to his _Director's_ muted footsteps above him.

Trust Jenny Shepard to have been Director for all of _three_ _months_ and since piss someone off so royally that they were attempting to kill her. Hell, even presidents usually went a few years.

He paused in driving a nail into the hull of his boat when he heard her start down the stairs. He had to admit; he was surprised she'd opt to seek him out. Since the outcome of Paris, he'd chalked her up to being a woman who avoided difficult situations.

"Lonely, Jen?" he drawled when she'd made it about half-way down. He felt her scowl hit the back of his head and smirk.

"Your guest room smells like mothballs," she informed him snippily. "Do you ever make use of it or are you just that unpopular?"

"I like to think it's the unpopular one," he responded casually, setting his hammer down nonchalantly.

She muttered something under her breath and looked around, coming forward, crossing her arms across her chest. She wore jeans and a fitted sweatshirt, and her hair was wet from a shower and swept up in a twist.

He only glanced at her from the corner of his eye. He noted she seemed to still be comfortable around him in disarray. She wore no make-up.

She eyed a stool reluctantly and then rolled her eyes and sat down with a frustrated sigh.

"Spare some alcohol?" she asked bitterly.

"You need it too?" he returned in the same tone, slinging a mason jar towards him with two fingers and filling it for her. It was so habitual. He had no idea what was going through her mind; he was just doing his job.

When the Director's security told him to protect her because he knew her better, he couldn't say no. They figured he'd be able to anticipate any escape moves she might try.

His remark seemed to subdue her. She looked at him and then looked away, just staring at the workbench.

It was undeniably uncomfortable. The two of them had barely managed to carry on a civil, unloaded conversation since she'd taken up the post as Director. They had unfinished business. Their affair in Europe had been quick and intense, and the emotions had run deep, but her misguided attempt to 'do no harm' in breaking it off "clean" had damaged them both.

She knew Gibbs was best to put in charge of her protection. She just didn't want to be around him.

She looked over hesitantly to watch him work, fingering the mason jar.

"Any new details on the Strahle cas—"

"Huh-uh," he interrupted abruptly.

She stopped.

"Basement is a no-case zone," he informed her gruffly.

She arched an eyebrow, and scoffed.

"Since _when_?" she challenged, remembering quite a few nights they'd knocked around strategy down here before they'd gone on their Op.

"Since I figured mixing business and pleasure was a bad idea," he answered.

She narrowed her eyes, and bit down on her lip.

The words hurt, even if he had a right to them. This was why she'd rather be anywhere but here. Her pride was too great to allow her to be humble, but the look in his eyes sometimes made her feel like the lowest of low.

"Learned that from you, Jen," he remarked coolly.

"Jesus Jethro, tell me how you really feel," she snapped, slamming her jar down. She had been in the process of taking a drink.

His head jerked in her direction and he gave her a stony gaze.

"You sure as hell didn't hesitate."

She glared at him. Of all the things from him, she had not expected this. She wondered how long he had bottled this up, or if he had simply been waiting for her to bring it up first. She didn't think he wanted to talk about it, at any rate. He just wanted her to hurt.

She grit her teeth and downed the entire small jar of bourbon, hardly even blinking at the sting. She'd never admit to him it was the first glass she'd had since the last glass they shared.

"I hesitated for six months," she snapped suddenly, standing up. She made sure he looked back at her, and looked surprised. "And when I stopped hesitating, you made a joke of it," she hissed.

He gave her an impassive, narrow look.

"Goodnight, Jethro," she said icily.

He turned toward the booth and braced his arms up on it, looking down at the wood.

_That'll be the day._

He flinched, and pushed away from the boat when he heard the stairs creak under her feet. He made a decision, and jogged up next to her, touching her shoulder as he moved past.

"You don't have to sleep in that room," he said shortly. Kelly's old room had a bathroom, anyway, and she'd be more at ease if she didn't have to go back and forth in the hall to get ready in the mornings.

He hadn't wanted to put her in there, but she was right. That old guest room hadn't been used in years and he wasn't the type to keep it clean for the hell of it; he left Kelly's door open when no one was in the house, and he spent time in her old room sometimes.

He showed her into the bigger room, a room that had once been a nursery, and then an eight-year-old's imaginary wonderland, and was now just a white-painted room with a bed and some furniture and a wide window.

She looked around.

"I've never been in here," she remarked.

He shrugged.

"Never had a reason," he said. "You always slept with me," he added.

She remained silent for a minute, and then glanced at him, lifting a brow. She smiled through a bitten lip.

"Are you going to make some joke about me sleeping with you tonight?" she asked.

"Didn't think it'd be funny," he answered with a shrug. "I'll get your stuff."

He left her feeling guilty, and brought back her leather bag a moment later, clutching her ID and her keys and a few other trinkets in his other hand. He placed them on the bed.

"Where's your Sig, Jenny?" he asked sharply, examining the lack of gun among her belongings.

She silently pulled up the hem of her sweatshirt and turned slightly. It was tucked into the small of her back, snug in her jeans. He nodded approvingly.

"I'm in the basement," he said gruffly, removing himself from the room. She noticed he avoided adding 'if you need anything'. He was avoiding a snarky remark.

Jethro left the door cracked, allowing her to choose whether she wanted it shut at her own discretion. He prowled down the hall, listening alertly, until he reached his front door. He opened it and stepped onto the dark porch, making sure Agents Kowalski and Carton were at their posts.

He was unsure if Agent Turner had returned as of yet.

He went back inside, shut the door, and in an unprecedented motion, locked his door.

* * *

_If you are as obsessed with lit-er-ah-ture as I am, then, given the names of Jenny's three guards, you maybe be able to discern the character traits of each of them, and what part they may play as the mystery unfolds-and perhaps you won't even fall for the twist. _


	2. Her Wings are Clipped

_-Nicely done, you literature nerds. :) Robbie Turner is taken from Atonement (it seemed to be the one most-missed)._

_

* * *

_

**"Her Wings are Clipped; she opens her mouth to sing" [Two]**

"It's getting worse, Agent Gibbs," Agent Sydney Carton muttered darkly, fingering the remote to the MTAC screens in his hands. The threat assessment arena was locked down bar Gibbs, Carton, and Agent Robbie Turner.

"The recordings detailing her movements stopped in the past two days," Carton said, "but we received this earlier in the evening. It's from—oh, a week ago," the agent hit 'play', and the MTAC screen lit up.

It was a grainy, poor quality film of Jenny in the sanctity of her home.

Jethro leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. He rested his chin on his knuckles. Jenny was working late. Agent Kowalski was standing guard outside her office.

The camera was hidden somewhere in Jenny's bedroom; but there was another in her office, and in her kitchen. The film they'd been sent was patched together, so it showed Jenny's whole night a week or so ago.

Dinner in the kitchen, alone, leaning against her counter and talking to someone on a blue tooth headset. Four hours working in her study with a fire roaring and a glass of…scotch? And then, the grand finale, Jenny stumbling towards bed at an ungodly hour and stripping down to bra and panties, collapsing on her sheets and snuggling up.

"Turn it off," he barked. It made him angry. Really angry.

"There isn't much more," Carton said, as if it was a comfort. He made the screen go dark and the lights come up. He held out a folded piece of paper. It was plain white, and had neat type on it.

_You only think Red is safe._

That's what it read.

Jethro glared at the threatening words.

"The threats aren't consistent with your typical stalker," Agent Turner remarked, straddling one of the office chairs backwards. "We're leaning towards the conclusion that it isn't one," he muttered.

"Then what?" Jethro asked curtly.

"The culprit is trying to psychologically break her down; make us and her paranoid, which translates to vulnerable…it could be an intelligent stalker; we haven't made conclusions," Carton said, giving Turner a look.

Jethro narrowed his eyes. He shook his head stiffly.

"It's a hit," he said coldly.

Carton and Turner hesitated. They seemed uncertain.

Jethro stood.

"Comb through past threats and any dangerous situations she's gotten herself into since 1999. See whose toes she stepped on that didn't get crushed enough to stop walking."

"Why stop at 1999?"

Jethro came down the stairs, heading for the exit in MTAC. It was time for Jenny to go home.

"Cases leading up to 1999 were either probie work—or those involved who'd put a hit on her are dead," he answered pointedly.

This was something she'd brought on herself since him; since Paris.

* * *

"This is absolutely uneconomical," Jenny growled, her arms crossed firmly. She stood in the middle of the catwalk outside her office, glaring at Kowalski to her side and Jethro halfway down the stairs.

"Under no circumstances are you allowed in your townhouse at the present time, Director," Carton reminded her calmly.

"I am only asking you to let me back for a damn minute! This is the second day you have carted me to Agent Gibbs' house and then in the morning bid me write down what I plan to wear so it can be retrieved. It's a waste of resources and frankly, it is demeaning. I don't see the harm in allowing me in for five minutes—"

"You won't take five minutes, ma'am, you'll take fifty, with all due respect," Agent Turner interrupted shortly.

Jenny turned an icy glare on him.

"I do not believe your opinion was asked, Turner."

"Mine's the one that counts right now," he fired back, unafraid of her. "One of us will get a bag for you."

Jenny scoffed impressively.

"That is hardly comforting, with all due respect," she snarled.

"She doesn't trust our fashion sense," Kowalski teased with a smirk. Jenny narrowed her eyes.

"Director, this is how it works. Either you allow one of us to pick you out a bag, or tomorrow, you'll write everything down, and Turner will go get it," Carton informed her with a shrug.

She glared at the lot of them, her jaw set. She disliked Turner more than the others. They didn't get along. He was bitter he was assigned to security and not homicide like he'd requested, and she thought he was crude.

Kowalski would bring home something black and brown, God help him, and she'd be mortified.

Carton was probably the best choice…

"Jethro," she said instead, surprising them all. He had to know it was the logical choice. "You're capable of packing me a bag for five days," she remarked. Five days, they'd spent in Marseille.

"Can't say the shoes'll match," he said with a shrug.

"Black goes with everything," she informed him shortly. She unfolded her arms and began down the stairs, sweeping past them. She was tired and sick of fighting this battle anyway, and of all of them, she trusted Jethro to remember her outfits enough to pick out something less-than-embarrassing.

They reached the ground floor instep and she paused as her guard kept moving, watching Jethro stride over to turn his desk lamp off.

"There's a book on my bedside table," she said.

"Yeah, I'll get it," he said brushing off her words.

She dipped her hand into her coat pocket for her keys and started to run her nail around the ring to remove her key.

"I have a key, Jen," he said, gesturing towards the elevator and her waiting guard. "Go."

She looked at him for the briefest moment before she listened, thrusting her keys back in her coat pocket aggressively. She'd forgotten he had a key.

She stepped into the elevator and didn't say a word to her agents. It was a tense atmosphere. She sensed something had happened that had heightened their protective spidey-senses. Jethro wasn't going to find a book on her bedside table; he'd have to look—it was in the drawer. She wanted him to find what else was there.

Now that she knew he still had her key, she felt more confident that she'd told him to get her book.

"Any cool new death threats, boys?" she asked sardonically.

Kowalski, always the joker, piped up immediately.

"Hillary Clinton seems to be itching for the trigger."

"She always was a jealous bitch," Jenny quipped.

* * *

He had a switchblade in his pocket that he hadn't seen since Paris. It had been laying on top of the worn paperback copy of the book Jenny told him to get. He'd stopped wondering where it went years ago. He must have forgotten he'd given it to her one night in Europe when he'd been incensed to find her without a blade on her.

And she had held on to it these past six years.

Jethro parked his truck in the drive and Agent Turner shined a light on him as he approached his front porch.

"Everything look tame at the townhouse?" he asked. It was generally his job to monitor activity there at night, but Jethro had taken that job this time since he'd been there anyway.

Jethro shrugged, and nodded. Same old sophisticated townhouse, except there were scars from where Jenny's old security system was being ripped out.

"Sciuto is running extensive scans on all the new equipment to be installed," Turner said. "Should be able to get it running by Thursday, if we feel like we've got a more stable hold on the situation, we'll take her home."

"You keep her here until you don't have any doubts," Jethro answered sharply.

"I think it's connected to the Mossad," Turner said out of the blue.

Jethro paused in opening his door.

"Mossad doesn't want her dead," he said.

"No," Turner shook his head. "Hell, not Mossad. The Haswari kid. Carton agrees, figures the few loners left in his cell are out for revenge, or maybe Mossad buddies of his who think he's innocent."

Jethro tightened his jaw.

"Kowalski worked with Shepard in Israel, he's looking into it," Turner said dully.

Jethro just nodded and went in. He locked the door behind him again tonight. He was unused to all the lights in his house being on when he came home, but his protect_ee_ tended to do that. This night, even though it was cold, his screen door was open and Jenny as standing just outside of it.

"Jenny," he growled sharply.

She turned around, a mug in her hands.

"Carton is on the porch swing with a gun," she informed him. "Kowalski, I believe, is hiding in the bushes," she glared at him, "with a gun," she added pointedly.

He ignored her comments and fixed a hard look on her.

"Get inside," he ordered in a low voice. She knew better than to be in open air with so many threats hanging about, particularly if Carton really did think the Ari fiasco was involved. Then snipers were involved. And Carton on the porch swing or Kowalski in the bushes wouldn't stand for nothin' against a sniper.

She didn't argue, but she looked like she wanted to.

He heard Kowalski and Carton slip in the house and begin locking up and checking around as he marched her back to her bedroom.

He chucked the duffel bag he'd placed her things in on the bed, and she spotted her favorite black stilettos on top. Good old Jethro. She knew she could trust him, even if he wasn't aware he had always been so in tune with her.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out the switchblade.

"You could have left it in the pocket of the coat, Jen," he said darkly. It wasn't even 'her coat', then. It was _THE_ coat. _THE_ coat on the empty plane seat and _THE_ coat with the Dear John letter.

"Got accustomed to keeping it in my boot," she answered impassively.

"You got a blade on you now?" he asked, arching a brow. She hesitated. That was his answer. He handed her back the switchblade wordlessly, but she held up her palm.

"No," she said softly. "Take your knife back. I'll take my key," she said. She swallowed hard.

His knuckles turned white as he gripped the knife.

"Take the knife, Jen," he said tiredly. "Might need it in an emergency."

She reached out after a brief moment and she took the switchblade. Her fingers brushed his and it was like six years of missing her crackled through his spine, right to his groin. She gently pulled the knife towards her.

"Keep my key," she said quietly. "Same reason."

It was like a glaringly obvious statement that what they had in Paris and all over Europe had not ended when she took the easy way out. Being in such close quarters, after the bickering and stolen looks of the past few weeks, was making it clear. If one of them had moved on and the other hadn't, it would be awkward. If they had both moved on, there would be no bitterness.

It wasn't awkward. It was bated. Like being the prey hunted in a forest, waiting for a trap they knew was there to _SNAP_.

He looked around the room, surveying it, noting its safety, and turned to leave, determined to let it be. His job was to protect her. He had thought it would be fun, mocking her, making her uncomfortable, witnessing her be held prisoner.

It wasn't fun. It was just overwhelming. It brought all of his bitterness and regret to the surface. It made him hostile toward her, but the less-than-vicious way she was acting brought all of the feelings back.

"Why did you leave?" he asked suddenly, turning back around in the doorway. He looked at her hard.

Her green eyes went wide. She looked a whole lot paler. He thought he'd get an honest answer, she was so taken aback. He knew she was ambitious, he knew the opportunity—especially now. But he wasn't dumb enough to think that was the only thing.

"You didn't give me a reason to stay," she said, collecting herself. Her lashes hid her green eyes briefly in a downcast blink.

"I didn't want you to go."

"You _never_ told me that."

"You didn't ask!" he shouted.

She parted her lips angrily, her shoulders setting back. Her nostrils flared.

"Would you have given a damn?" he demanded. "Would it have changed, if I'd asked you to stay?"

"How the hell do I answer that now, Jethro?" she barked, her eyes blazing.

"You left me a note," he snapped. "You were a coward, Jenny."

"You were a bastard!" she shouted. She raised her voice.

She turned away and stormed toward the bed, folding her arms across her chest. She threw him a contorted, furious look over her shoulder. Her green eyes were wet and swimming.

"You haven't changed, Jethro, neither have I," she snarled resignedly.

His fist clenched at his side.

"Nothing changed," he growled, his words loaded.

She opened her mouth as he left the room abruptly. She bit down on her lip hard and flung the switchblade in her hand at the wall in distress. It hit the blinds covering the window and made an awful noise.

Jenny flinched.

A door slammed violently.

She thought at this moment she might take life-threatening stalkers over facing Jethro.

Because if he was right and nothing had changed—and everything was still there—then she still loved him, and he was still laughing at her for it. _That'll be the day. _

_

* * *

_

It was an uncomfortable, sleepless night. He stayed in the basement and tried to soften his hand enough to not destroy the boat as he worked on it. He drank a little, but not enough to smother his senses, because his job required he be perfectly alert.

He sent Turner to patrol her townhouse again, and early that morning, when he knew Abby Sciuto would be at work because she was swamped with another case at the moment, he called her.

"Hi Gibbs! Do you know how tiring it is to try and catch five murders at once? Blah, GANGS. They are _sooooo_ annoying—and especially when they kill Petty Officer—"

"Abs," he murmured, interrupting. "You about finished with the Director's security equipment?"

"Oh, sure, that was easy. I double scanned everything and ran all kinds of diagnostics test to make sure nothing was bugged or anything. The guy from the security company got annoyed about it, too, seemed to think we didn't trust him—"

"We don't."

"—yeah I told him that. He was even less pleased."

Jethro couldn't help but grin; he could sense the Goth grinning herself.

"They can install it today, but they should let it settle over night, see if they catch anything before they let Director Shepard go home, because I don't want her to get hurt."

"Yeah, Abs," Jethro said.

He coaxed her off of the phone firmly and hung up, relaying the information to Carton when the other agent came in, stretching, looking worn out and stiff, searching for coffee.

"Turner has training in mechanics; he's going to do a lot of the handiwork. But he'll need help—"

"I can spare Agent McGee for a day," Jethro said.

"Can he be trusted?"

Jethro simply gave Carton a look that said it all. Carton cleared his throat and nodded.

"Of course he can be trusted…" he agreed. "She up?"

"Got in the shower twenty minutes ago," Jethro answered neutrally.

"Better have some coffee ready if we want her to be in a sunny mood," Kowalski commented, sitting up on the couch. He blinked, and stretched.

Jethro snorted.

"She's won't be," he muttered under his breath.

Not after _that_ last night.

Jethro started coffee, and then he left the kitchen to change and get ready for another day at work. He was going to set his team on figuring out this threat situation with Jenny. He wanted it over with, and her agents working on it day and night obviously weren't cutting it. At this point, he thought it was best to get her out of his house.

The water shut off loudly as he was changing, and he knew she was out of the shower and getting ready. He pulled a clean polo over his white undershirt and brushed his teeth before he ventured back out, grabbing his sig, holster, and badge. He could smell the coffee.

Jethro walked out of his room and marched back into the kitchen, straight to the coffee pot. Agent Turner walked in the house, fists stuffed in his pockets.

"Director's house was clear this morning," he said gruffly. He looked at the pot of coffee balefully and then around at the room full of agents. "Somethin's off," he muttered.

"You said everything was in order," Kowalski said sharply.

"Yeah, perfect order," Turner returned. "Remember how we would find stuff on her lawn, cigarettes, broken shoelaces…" he prompted.

Carton nodded, frowning.

"All that's stopped since we brought her here."

"Yeah, the dickhead's got no one to watch," Kowalski stated.

"If it's a stalker, he would have broken in. Taken something, sent more threats to us—" Turner started.

Carton had been staring at Gibbs.

"It's being made to look like a stalker, and it's really starting to look like it's not," he muttered.

Jethro nodded slowly.

"There's no reason to make her feel unsafe in her home anymore," he growled.

"And whoever it is doesn't know where she is now, or we'd know," Carton remarked.

"You think this bastard wanted us to worry about her security at home, then pull something at work?" Turner asked.

"No one said this bastard wasn't a bitch," Gibbs remarked. "Tighten your hold on her at work."

"Oh, she's going to love that," whined Kowalski under his breath.

"Tell her to take it up with me," Jethro said stonily, shutting his mouth quickly.

"Shouldn't we be goin'?" Turner asked after a moment, checking his watch.

"She got out of the shower ten minutes ago," Kowalski said by way of answer.

Turner groaned.

"Give me some of that coffee, we'll be here another hour," he muttered.

Jethro smirked.

* * *

Jennifer Shepard was absolutely furious. There was an agent with her at all times. They had gotten it into their heads that an attempt to kill her would be executed while she was at work, and therefore, Carton was standing behind her as she worked at her desk, Turner was stationed outside of her office door, Kowalski prowled the building ominously and one of them ALWAYS escorted her every time she moved.

She was about ready to take her own Sig to her head.

She was tired. She hadn't slept at all last night. It was impossible to sleep with Jethro in the bedroom across the hall. He had revealed more of his emotions to her in the past seventy-two hours than he had in the duration of their entire affair, and it was threatening to break her down.

She didn't even have time to be scared anymore, and this stalker thing _was_ scaring her.

It was late at night again. There had been a beast of an argument around seven when she'd been informed that her new security system, as well as bullet-resistant glass, was installed in her home and yet she wasn't allowed back until tomorrow.

It was foolhardy; they would have no way to tell if it worked unless she was there, that way they could see if this psycho could still see her every move or if she was safe.

Turner and the NCIS tech guy had removed six miniscule cameras and two phone bugs from her house.

The very thought made her shiver, and in the very deepest part of her soul and mind, she was thankful to be going to Jethro's house instead of hers. There was an overwhelming feeling of safety there, and perhaps it was because of how safe he himself had always made her feel when they were together.

"Director," Carton murmured behind her. He muffled a yawn. "It would be best for us to return to the safe house."

"I am working, Sydney," she answered shortly.

"You are finished with all of your required work," he pointed out.

Jenny sighed. She leaned forward, placing her forehead in her hands.

"It's nearly midnight, Director," he prompted.

She placed her fingers against her lips and closed her eyes briefly; thank bracing both palms on her desk and standing up. She began packing up her things mechanically, and swore she heard Carton's sigh of relief.

"Have you uncovered anything?" Jenny asked neutrally.

"Nothing off the tapes, notes, or townhouse lawns," Carton answered tiredly. "Abby Scuito, however, did manage to sift through the distortion of the one threatening phone call and discern that the voice was male, with Middle Eastern inflection."

Jenny pressed her lips together.

It was what she hadn't wanted to hear.

She needed to speak with Kowalski. He had been part of her team in Israel; he had worked with Ari as she had and he had known some of Ari's contacts. He would understand better who the culprit might be.

She locked her briefcase shut and picked up her leather coat off of her couch. Briefly, she thought of the one she'd sacrificed on the altar of leaving Jethro. She wished she hadn't left the coat. She shouldn't have left him.

Carton opened the office door for her and she shut off the lights.

Jethro was talking in a low voice to Kowalski at the catwalk rail, leaned over it, looking down over the office space like she sometimes did. He looked up at her. He just _looked_ at her.

"Some of us humans need sleep, ma'am," Turner muttered at her thickly, looking pretty tired.

Jenny gave him an icy glare. She just didn't get alone with Turner. She knew what he thought of her; he thought she was selfish and inconvenient; she was independent, and hated the coddling of security. They clashed.

It still bothered her that he thought she was a robot; an ice queen.

"Hey," Jethro growled, looking over his shoulder. He shot a warning look at Turner and Jenny looked away from him, giving Turner a baleful look. She tried to ignore that Gibbs had just taken up for her.

"There is a couch in my office," she said with clipped civility. "You are welcome to it."

"Can't stop a bullet for you if I'm asleep," he snapped.

"Give it a break, Robbie," Carton said authoritatively.

"Everyone give it a break," Kowalski interjected. "Let's go, the last janitor left an hour ago," he said, reminding them how late it was.

Turner pushed off the wall with a sharp nod and headed down the stairs briskly, getting ahead to do a perimeter search of the parking garage. Jenny stared at the spot where he had been leaning and then strode forward, her lips pressed together.

She let her fingers danced over the railings as she walked down the stairs.

"Agent McGee cleared the security system," Kowalski said. "Ziva David is going to be staying in your townhouse tonight to bait this guy, see if he can get through security, or even if he tries."

Before the elevator doors opened in the garage, Jenny turned dark eyes and a harsh look on him.

"It is unacceptable to endanger the lives of my friends in order to ensure my safety," she growled seriously. "Do not tell me she volunteered; I know Ziva. I know she did. Do not ever agree to such a thing again, Stanley," she ordered.

Her heart skipped beats. If Ziva was hurt, if anyone was hurt in her place, she wouldn't be able to get through it. Fear gripped her heart on top of the stress, and she knew she was looking at another sleepless night.

With a _ping, _the elevator doors opened, and Carton and Kowalski led the way out, with Jethro taking the rear.

He took a stride up beside her and rested his palm on her back in a strangely familiar gesture. She turned her head very slightly in his direction; it was dark.

"_Get back_!"

The words were whispered harshly and in a panicked tone, and the elevator doors were already shut. The sound of three separate guns being drawn was heard, but nothing else was said.

Jethro grabbed her arm above the shoulder and yanked her back against the doors, shoving her down to a crouch. Something clattered to the floor, and suddenly the garage was flooded with light.

Jenny held her breath, her eyes closed tightly, and hid her face behind Jethro's shoulder.

"_Fuck_, Dr. Mallard!" she heard one of her agents yell, half-relieved and half-angry.

"You'll give an old man a heart-attack, pointing a gun at him like that!" was Ducky's indignant answer.

Jethro rolled his eyes and stood up, gently pulling her with him.

"Thought you were an intruder—" Jenny couldn't hear the rest of the conversation Turner was having. She took a deep breath.

"Take her to the car, Gibbs," Carton ordered, walking toward Turner and Ducky.

Jethro looked over at her and jerked his head in that direction. She followed, her feet moving quickly, frustrated that the false alarm had scared her so badly. At the car, Jethro pulled her in front of him and reached around her to open the door, so there was never really an open shot at her.

His hand touched her hip as he helped her get in.

"Jen," he asked curtly.

She looked at him.

"You okay?" he furrowed his brow, glancing over as Kowalski opened the driver door. Carton approached, and turner went to his own SUV to do another drive-by of her house.

The redhead parted her lips.

"No," she said sharply, and he didn't have an answer, so he slammed the door shut.

* * *

Ducky had evidently stayed very late to organize his autopsy files before a vacation he would be taking with his mother next week, and he had almost been mistaken for an assassin in the garage.

They were all on their guard now, even if the threat hadn't been real. Jenny had not made one sarcastic, biting comment to any of them regarding her 'captivity'.

After the perimeters had been checked and everyone was settled into their positions, Jethro retreated to his basement, wide awake and itching to have his tools in his hands.

He poured a mason jar of bourbon, just enough to burn his throat but not enough to intoxicate him, and set to work sanding, letting the soothing motion ripple through his muscles. He was still dwelling on his fight with Jen last night.

He had provoked it, and he didn't know why. Listening to her refuse to take responsibility for her actions just made him angrier. It was starting to make him feel guilty, as well, because in retrospect he could see the missteps he'd taken.

It didn't mean she had to leave.

He heard a creak above him, and then slow, careful footsteps on the stairs. He knew the sure but light steps were not those of one of the other agents; that was the Director creeping down the stairs and he did not acknowledge her presence.

She was dressed down in casual pajamas and a sweatshirt. She walked over to the workbench and looked at everything, before slowly perching on a stool somewhere behind him. He moved around the boat, still sanding without a word.

He would let her say something if she wanted to. He was tired of trying to figure out what she wanted or what her motives had been. It wasn't worth it.

She rested her cheek on her palm and looked at the sawdust covered dirty wood of the counter, tracing her finger in it. She pursed her lips and cleared her throat softly.

"When people hate you…enough to want you dead," she whispered thickly. Her voice shook and she rested her other hand on the counter. "It isn't a good feeling."

He looked through the ribs of the boat, but he didn't stop sanding, and he didn't say anything. She used the hand cradling her cheek to push her hair away from her face, and in the dim light from the lamp, he could see her biting her lip.

And he could see her periodically wipe her thumb under her eyes.

She sat still, crying quietly. After a few minutes, he set down the sander and went for another mason jar off of the shelf, pouring her a glass. Wordlessly, he pushed it over to her, and narrowed his eyes.

Her crying angered him. He didn't know why she ventured down her to cry in front of him when she had always, always preferred to cry alone.

He knew she was upset and stressed. She was hiding her face from him but she obviously didn't want to be alone. She placed her fingertips on the edge of the top of the mason jar and he could discern a slight shaking.

"I am scared," she whispered, wiping her hand over her eyes again. "I don't want to die now," Jenny sounded hurt. "I'm not happy enough with my…decisions."

He grit his teeth, reaching for his own jar of bourbon and taking a swallow. He pointed at her around the jar.

"This is what _you_ wanted," he told her bluntly. He made it clear it had been her ambition. "You made _your_ choice."

"I had to do what was best for me!" she snapped suddenly. Her palm hit the counter violently and her glass shook. He glared at her. His jaw tightened. Jenny opened her mouth and looked up at him, her lashes all heavy with tears. "I am allowed to regret my decisions," she said, soft and shaky.

He studied her harshly. Her relaxed shoulders and red eyes and shaking hands. He didn't doubt that this was scaring her, but he was tired of the way she seemed to think he hadn't been hurt at all by what had happened six years ago.

He downed the rest of his bourbon, started at her for a moment, and shook his head.

"You don't regret taking this job," he pointed out dully.

She blinked and cast her eyes down, curving her palm around her mason jar.

She chewed on her lip, and lifted the glass, swirling the liquid around.

"This is what I worked for—if I had turned it down, it would have been for nothing," she paused, breathing in and closing her eyes briefly. "It's all I have."

He wasn't sure how he was supposed to take being told he was the reason she'd kept striving for her current position. He was starting to feel less hostile towards her, but he didn't know what move she wanted him to make.

She had been in his house less than three days and all of this was in their faces. He should have known this would happen. It had been too volatile, and it was too bottled up, to ignore.

He pushed his mason jar away and picked his sander up, running his fingers over it absently. He lifted it to return to working on the boat and then grit his teeth again. He set it down and approached her.

"No one is going to kill you, Jen," he said gruffly, relating back to one of the first things she'd said. He rested his hand on her jar of bourbon and gently pulled it away, placing his over hand on her back. It had been a long time since he'd been close enough to smell the perfume on her.

He wasn't sure if he was trying to tell her he'd be there if she wanted to take back what she'd done. He didn't want to take her back. It would have ended back then anyway, and badly. He leaving had just given him a reason to hate her.

Then, they were older now. Hardened. More mature. And he had lived with the pain of losing her, and he hadn't wanted to.

She straightened up, pressing her lips together. She lifted her arm jerkily to wipe her face but, almost without thinking, because he used to, he did it for her. He brushed his knuckles under her eyes.

He looked at the curve of her lips and he wondered, _does it feel the same way_?

She must have read it in his eyes; her breathing hitched.

She reached up and rested her palm against his chest, just below his shoulder. She moved forward on the stool as if to get up, swallowing hard, her eyes still watery, and that only put her closer, made her scent stronger.

His hand fell to her neck and he felt her steady pulse. Jenny seemed to nod her head. She opened her eyelashes a little wider. Without warning, he brushed his lips against hers, slowly at first, and she took a deep breath in, kissing him hard back to repulse his hesitancy.

Her blood rushed dizzyingly to her head. Jethro braced one hand against the counter, his fingers threading into the long red hairs he could reach. It was a slow burn of a kiss with an undercurrent of chaos and urgency, and it stopped abruptly when he heard the door opening and shutting upstairs and turned his head away.

He felt her breathing softly, her lips parted close to his ear. He felt her hand fall to his waist and she pressed her fingertips into his ribs.

Jethro straightened a little, leaning back and looking at her.

He moved his hand swiftly from her neck to her shoulder and squeezed.

"Go to bed, Jen," he said gruffly, backpedaling. Of all the _stupid_ things…

"You need sleep," he said. "Go to bed."

She looked shocked; she looked confused; she looked a lot of things.

She pulled her hand away.

Jenny got up gracefully, with a surprising amount of poise, and with her pointer finger pushed her mason jar of bourbon to him carefully. She met his eyes for the briefest moment before she turned and made her way silently up the stairs, shoulders back. She kept her head angled slightly away as she left his basement.

He picked up his hammer, threw it violently against the wall, and slammed his hands down on the counter, spreading them out and leaning his weight forward. He swore under his breath and closed his eyes, gritting his teeth.

His resolve to never touch this again was snatched from under him. Paris, Europe, the softness of her skin, the sound of her laugh, it all came back and crashed into him full force. And he turned away from the counter and almost ran up the stairs.

He made a stop in the living room, checking to see if the sound of a door shutting had been Kowalski coming in from a perimeter check or leaving; it had been the latter. Jethro turned and went quickly down the hall, on his way to catching Jenny in Kelly's old room—

-she was standing in the hall, her arm on the door frame, staring into the barren bedroom. He came up behind her and gripped her arm above the elbow, pulling her around to face him. She stiffened in surprise and her eyes went wide.

Jethro stepped close to her, meeting her eyes as his sure movements backed her into the wall. Instinctively, she wrapped her arm around his waist. He placed his hands on her neck and tilted her head back; he kissed her.

It wasn't a fresh kiss, but a continuation of the one started in the basement. His hesitancy was unbridled and he wasn't sure she'd even been cautious to begin with. He felt the rushing beat of her pulse in her neck and moved his body closer to her, seeking the warmth of her curves fitting against him.

She pushed back against him, her other hand weaving around his shoulders. She had him in a tight embrace; it was like a movie kiss, all lips and teeth and tongue, felt like it lasted forever; breath-stealing.

When it ended, they were both breathing hard.

He let his hands slide down to her shoulders, trace the contours of her body, until her gripped her hip and pulled her away from the wall, jerking his head wordlessly towards his bedroom. She slipped past him in the dark hallway and he barely let her get by, his arm snaking around her lithe waist, hand sliding under her shirt, pressing into bare skin.

Jethro swung the door shut and she turned toward him, one hand darting up to run nervously through her red hair. He reached up and caught her hand, and ran his thumb over her pulse, and for a minute he looked at her, intensely.

He moved closer, holding her hand in his, holding it behind her back; she sat down on the bed and pulled him with her, let him crawl over her, reaching up to grip his arms and run her hands over his chest through his shirt.

Jethro kissed her again; she placed a manicured hand on the back of his neck. He held his weight over her carefully, letting her pull his hips closer at her own discretion; let her determine how much weight she could handle.

She felt good beneath him. She felt like six years of unresolved tension, and a whole lot of longing and emotion. He could barely catch a breath; if he pulled his mouth back for a minute, she coaxed him back, and when she pulled away to gasp for air, he was aggressive in his re-conquering; loathe to lose her mouth for a second.

But he could only go so long without feeling her skin against his.

His breath ragged in his chest, he trailed his lips down her neck, scraping teeth against her ear and her carotid artery, his hands reaching for the hem of her sweatshirt. He met her eyes as he pulled it over her head, a smirk touching his lips. She wore a white cotton bra, none of the usual lacy, provocative underwear that was her staple. She hadn't been counting on a bed partner.

Jenny lifted one of her knees, pressing her thigh against his, and she pulled his t-shirt over his head in one fell jerk. He drew his hand over her shoulder and over her breast, brushing his knuckles against her ribcage, a gentle, exploratory touch.

She murmured incomprehensively and reached between them to unzip his jeans. He let her fight with his jeans, lowering his head to kiss first the dips in her collar bone and then draw his tongue at the edge of her bra's fabric.

Her hands pushed back the hem of his jeans, dipping wantonly beneath the fabric of the denim and his boxers, and at the feel of her nails, the pads of her fingers, anywhere near his groin, he bucked his hips roughly against her and she arched up, drawing in her breath harshly.

He kissed back up to her neck and nipped her shoulder lightly, finding her mouth again and shoving his tongue in her mouth. She lifted that other long leg and hooked her foot into his jeans for leverage. She pressed her hand against his chest and pricked him with her nails, maneuvering his jeans down.

Jethro slipped one of her bra straps off of her shoulder, running his hand over her warm skin. He felt her heartbeat and slid his hand in the loose cotton material, cupping her breast in his hand. He brushed his thumb over her nipple; she moaned against his lips, the sound hitting him like an electric shock all over.

He stopped kissing her and brushed his mouth against the corner of hers; he reached down and grabbed her leg, running his hand roughly over her thigh and holding it against his waist. Jenny twisted and then pushed at his chest, pushed him on his side and then straddled him, her hair tumbling forward over her shoulders.

She settled her hips low over his half-off jeans, the pressure almost unbearable, and as she shifted, he bit back a groan that escaped anyway and she lowered her body to his, the flat, taut muscles of her abdomen fitting against his, her breasts against his chest.

He tangled his hand in her hair and pulled.

It all felt damn good; better than damn good. She smelled good, she tasted good, he wanted her more than he thought he ever could after she'd left in that airport. She kissed down his chest, reaching for his free hand and lacing her fingers into it. She squeezed.

He ran his hand from her hair down her back, feeling her spine arch under his urgent touch, and he pulled the drawstring keeping up her loose cotton pajama pants. Jenny bit her lip; she raised her head and gripped his shoulders, her eyes closing half-way.

He traced the dip of her pelvic bone, shoving cotton out of his way, and teased her. A whimper escaped her lips and she tilted her head back; she was hyper-sensitive to his touch, aching all over to let him touch every part of her.

Jethro reached up and wrapped his arm around her, pulling her down against his chest. He tilted her head back and kissed her hard, cupping her ass in his hand and then trailing his hand up between her thighs; Jenny moaned. He thrust a finger inside her and felt the shiver run through her.

She gasped and dug her nails into him, her breath catching.

"Jethro, god," she moaned, her voice throaty, hoarse. Her mouth was close to his ear and he kissed her neck, kissed her shoulder, a sensuous and yet aggressive move. He jerked his finger in a come-hither motion. She cried out, struggling for breath.

"_Ah_."

He abruptly pulled his hand away. He took her arm and pulled her off of him, rolling onto his side. He hooked one leg over both of hers, leaning over her possessively, protectively. She angled her body towards him, and she ran her hand down his sternum to his groin, bending her knee between his legs and applying pressure. She shoved his jeans and boxers down more; her hand wrapped around him.

He groaned, lowering his forehead to hers, not sure he could take much teasing. It had been a long time. He cupped her breast again and leaned over, lowering his mouth to it this time. She moaned his name again at the contact and twisted her leg out of his trap, struggling to get his jeans off.

"Jen," he groaned against her skin, clenching his teeth. He reached over her and gripped the bed sheets, leaning over again, supported on one arm. He reached between them for her pajama pants and pulled at them in frustration.

They hit the floor after a violent struggle, and his jeans and boxers followed, and the feel of her completely naked against him again, her sweat-slicked skin, the sounds escaping her lips, made it impossible to draw it out any longer.

Her intake of breath was sharp; he thrust into her hard and then he attacked her lips in a kiss, groaning, his head spinning, his muscles tightening; she was warm and tight—and he loved her more than anything, and he should have told her all those years.

Jenny wrapped a slender, smooth leg around his waist and dug her heel into his back, kissing him back with all she had. She breathed in, breaking the kiss, her eyes dark emerald, pupils dilated. Her hair was tangled over her shoulders and she gripped his bicep tightly, her other fingers desperately digging into the sheets.

She closed her eyes and licked her lips, tilting her head back against the pillows.

"_Harder_," she gasped. A cry escaped her lips and she arched up, tightening her muscles around him. "Jethro," she moaned, loud—probably too loud—and tossed her head. He lowered his mouth to hers again, his lips an tongue forceful. He groaned her name, his shoulders shuddering as he came, listening to her moan deep from the back of her throat, her lips moving soundlessly.

She dug her nails into him, and he felt her climax hit her. She threw her head back.

"_God_!"

He plunged his hand into her hair and made her look at him, his orgasm still surging through his blood. He kept thrusting, deep, kept seeking out her swollen, red lips with his until her moans subsided to ragged, erratic breathing and she relaxed, and her grip on him grew less tight and less passionate.

Jethro lowered his head to her neck, slumping, his lips resting against her neck lightly. He disentangled his hand from her hair and he rolled off of her; Jenny gave a soft squeak of pain and caught his hand as he moved.

He placed one palm on her neck, his fingers pressing into her sweaty skin, brushing damp crimson hair back. She turned toward him, swallowed hard, and looked in him, met his cobalt blue eyes.

She felt safe, she felt safe. She felt good, she felt sorry, she felt overwhelmed.

"Shhh," he said gruffly. "Shhh," he hissed again, not angrily, just softly.

He pulled her toward him and kissed her, softly on the lips, and he kept murmuring her name, quietly, huskily.

"Jenny. _Jenny_."

She tangled her legs up in his, touching him, kissing him back. It was the communication they were pros at, after all.


	3. His Bars of Rage

_-That awkward moment when three guys barge in on you sleeping with Leroy Jethro Gibbs. ;)_

_

* * *

_

"**His Bars of Rage" [Three]**

"Agent Gibbs, the Director's missing."

The authoritative, panicked bark rudely interrupted Leroy Jethro Gibbs' sleep and groggily, hiding his eyes from the sudden on-turn of the bright light, he tried to remember why this statement was blatantly false.

"_Gibbs_!" shouted the voice of Kowalski this time, banging on the wall. "Shepard is _gone_."

He heard a soft, annoyed sigh next to him, and suddenly remembered why Jenny wasn't missing.

She was right next to him.

"No, she isn't," he growled threateningly, sitting up. He eyed the guns drawn in Kowalski and Carton's hands balefully and blinked, glaring.

Carton pointed his gun towards Kelly's room across the hall.

"Door open, gun on the bed, no…Dir…" Carton trailed off, because the woman in question had decided to show herself. Carton's face turned considerably red and he clamped his mouth shut.

Jethro glanced at Jenny subtly out of the corner of his eye. Her hair was a complete tangled, sexy mess over her forehead and shoulders and she was holding the sheets and comforters neatly over her skin. It was still glaringly obvious that she was naked.

Kowalski raised his eyebrows sky-high.

"Good morning, _ma'am_," Kowalski greeted loudly, narrowing his eyes.

Jethro stared at the two intruding agents stonily.

"She isn't outside," Agent Turner announced, strolling up as if the matter didn't concern him.

"We found her," Kowalski stated matter-of-factly, pointing obviously.

Turner stared.

"Jesus Christ," he muttered, and promptly strolled away, muttering something. Kowalski snorted, and Carton cleared his throat, still rather red.

"I believe you have fulfilled your 'securing my safety' quota for the moment," Jenny stated icily, lifting an eyebrow. She was uncomfortable being stared down by two of her agents while lying in bed with a subordinate who had just kept her awake all night.

"Well," Carton said gruffly, as if startled. "If you're…safe," he said uncertainly, turning a critical eye on Gibbs.

"There isn't any need to worry for my honor," she scoffed, and lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper: "It was consensual."

Kowalski promptly turned and walked out the door, pretending to cover his ears. Carton moved forward, grabbed the doorknob, might have mumbled an apology, and high-tailed it out of the room, shoving his gun back into its holster.

Jenny collapsed back on the pillows and brought an exasperated hand up to press it against her forehead, running it back through her hair. Jethro turned his head slowly, looking down at her.

She laughed, and it was half real mirth, and half disbelief.

He half-smirked, and leaned back. She stopped laughing when she felt his weight next to her and seemed to hesitate uncertainly for a moment. She rested her head on her arm and curled up at his side, wrapped in sheets.

Things looked different in the morning light.

She reached over and placed her hand on his chest, running her hand gently over his skin. He turned to her surprisingly fast, his face close to hers. He put his hand on her neck again and ran his thumb up behind her ear.

Jethro kissed her swiftly, and disentangled himself, sitting on the edge of the bed, and straightening up. She lay back and watched him rub his neck and reached for his watch. He fastened it on.

He got up, and she found it odd that he didn't take a shower. He found clean boxers, suit pants, and had pulled an undershirt over his head when she rolled onto her side and shifted, propping her shoulder on the pillows.

He ducked into the bathroom, started the shower, and when he came out, he pointed to it for her and retrieved a polo. He seemed different. He seemed softer around the edges, and she had no idea why that thought had occurred to her.

"Jethro," she said. He looked at her impassively, and she parted her lips, waiting for her resolve to fail her. She forced the words out, swallowing her pride.

"I left because I was scared," she said in a rush, her words hitting each other as they tumbled out in a breath. He paused. He stared. "It was selfish, it was…low," she finished hoarsely. "I _was_ a coward."

She lifted her chin a little, and then pursed her lips.

"Do you want an apology—"

"No."

"I'll give you one," she said quietly. It was her offering on the altar. She hated to apologize because she hated to be wrong.

"Sign of weakness," he said curtly.

He shook his head, and snorted.

He looked at her and smirked, nodding his head toward the shower.

"Water's getting' cold," he said gruffly. She shifted, sitting up more, and slipped her legs out from under the sheet. He watched her movements and then rubbed his hand over his chin. He hadn't shaved yet.

"Jen," he said in a low voice after a moment. "Yeah, I was a bastard."

She met his eyes, and neither said anything else.

* * *

He was making coffee, and two of Jenny's cronies were glaring at him suspiciously. It was eerily like the moment after Shannon told her Dad she was pregnant, and–even though they were married and it was _perfectly_ _not_ sinful—his father-in-law had still given him this evil, outraged look.

Agent Turner had simply disappeared from the house. Kowalski and Carton remained in the kitchen, lacking in the usual small talk. It was as if suddenly Jenny had two older brothers who were seriously concerned with her well-being.

He figured he should probably be thankful for that…perhaps they had kept other men away from Jenny.

Carton cleared his throat loudly.

"Turner found something in the Director's mailbox this morning," he said.

Jethro turned away from the coffee maker sharply and gave Carton a hard look.

"Explosive?" he growled.

Kowalski shook his head, and Carton did as well.

"More like an act of desperation," he said.

"Note," clarified Kowalski, reaching into his pocket and removing it. It was in a plastic bag, untouched by human hands other than those that had delivered it. Jethro reached out and snatched it, narrowing his eyes to read.

_False Alarms can make you paranoid._

Jethro ran his thumb over the Ziploc bag.

"Kowalski thinks it's someone close to her," Carton said hesitantly.

"How else would this guy know about what happened in the NCIS garage last night?" Kowalski said in a low voice. Jethro looked over at him and set his jaw. He handed the note back and removed the coffee pot, choosing not to say anything.

He had an acutely bad feeling all of the sudden.

"You think it's safe to let her go home tonight, Gibbs?" Carton asked worriedly.

Jethro shrugged, pouring a mug of coffee for himself.

"He still knows where her house is," he said gruffly. "Evaluate Officer David's report on the security system and then make a decision. The point was to secure her safety so you could focus on the investigation," he said.

He moved his head slowly left and right when he heard Jenny in the hall and made a motion with his hand that they should stop talking. He wasn't going to be the one to recommend Jenny be kept away from her house when she'd been told she could go home today.

"I have a meeting with the SecNav at eight," she said coolly, slipping on a coat as she walked into the kitchen. "Is there anything to update him with? This high security business is beginning to interfere with my job."

She was handed a coffee mug by Jethro and took it automatically, leaning back against the counter quite close to him. For a long moment, Kowalski and Carton just stared at her, eyes moving from the coffee cup she'd been given, to her face, to Jethro, and back to her uncertainly.

She arched an eyebrow warningly.

"You walked in on us in bed together," she said shortly. "Let us move on with our lives. SecNav."

Carton blushed.

Kowalski shrugged.

"You can tell him we're focusing all of our attention now on the investigation and you are secured in your townhouse again," he said matter-of-factly. "Turner is meeting with Roberts over lunch to hear his recommendations."

Jenny nodded wordlessly.

Robert's was SecNav's head of Security; he was also in charge of coordinating hers as well as a few other high naval officials'. She personally liked sitting in on meetings with Roberts; he was more of a liberal when it came to security, and took her complaints seriously when it came to privacy and her dislike of being treated like a child.

Kowalski checked his watch.

"I'm going to warm up the car."

"Is Turner already gone?" Carton asked. Kowalski nodded.

"He went to pick up David," he answered, strolling out of the kitchen. The front door opened and closed a moment later, leaving Gibbs, Carton, and Jenny in the silent kitchen alone.

"I'm going to go…help," Carton announced after a moment, slinking out after him.

Jenny rolled her eyes and lifted her mug to her lips as she watched him leave.

"They're behaving like children."

"They've never walked in on you with a man before?" Jethro asked blithely.

Jenny paused.

"Are you _fishing_, Jethro?"

He grunted at her as if she were being preposterous.

Jenny took a nonchalant drink of her coffee.

"It's usually women they're walking in on me with," she remarked, deadpan.

Jethro glanced at her and did a double take, just to make sure she was kidding. He glared at her and she smirked, looking at the black coffee in her mug and then over at him with a soft smile.

"We always were good at small talk," she said, a little bitterly.

He gave her a little half-smile and placed his cup in the sink. She watched him rinse it out, and set her half-empty cup down on the counter.

"What now?" she asked.

"We got to work."

"And after work?" she asked promptly.

He turned around and faced her, looking down at her from his height advantage.

"You're going home," he said impassively. She couldn't read a thing in his eyes or the lines in his face.

* * *

The car ride to work was provokingly awkward.

Jenny sat in the back, staring at the backs of her agents' heads, her shoulders straight, one leg crossed over the other. Carton kept glancing back at her in the rearview mirror, and Kowalski was driving silently, with an irritating, blithe smirk on his stupid face.

"So," Kowalski drawled after a few more silent minutes. "You and Agent Gibbs."

Carton glared at him. Jenny stared straight ahead at the road. She waited for Kowalski to make some clever comment. He looked back at her in the rearview mirror and wiggled his eyebrows.

"He's a hands-on employee?" Kowalski asked wickedly after a few more moments of silence.

"I think we should respect the Director's privacy," Carton said loudly.

"You shut your mouth, _Sydney_," Kowalski snapped back like some teenage girl. "Don't you think it's _weird_ that she made such a big deal of refusing to get out of the car when she found out where we brought her…" he trailed off and glanced at Carton.

"No. I don't think its weird."

"I do."

Jenny stared at them. She didn't say anything for a moment.

"I told you it was a positively horrible idea to place me under Agent Gibbs' authority," she neutrally said after a moment.

"Excuse us, ma'am, we weren't aware you were so susceptible to seduction." Kowalski said solemnly.

Jenny glared at him icily.

She silently picked up her blackberry and began a text to Cynthia.

"Didn't Gibbs used to be your boss?" Carton asked after a moment, tilting his head.

Jenny raised her eyes and glared at him.

"And now I am his," she responded curtly. "He's that good."

There was silence again.

Then:

"Kinky," said Kowalski impishly.

* * *

Gibbs put McGee and Abby to work on the mysterious, offensive note as soon as they reached work. While Jenny met with SecNav, he, Carton, Kowalski, and Turner gathered in her office to evaluate Ziva's report.

Jethro made himself at home behind Jenny's desk, in Jenny's chair.

"You see anyone mess with the mailbox?" Carton asked.

She shook her head.

"I slept from midnight to five this morning," she said. She flicked her eyes over at Gibbs. "Then I went on a run. This person had substantial time to deliver his message."

Carton nodded.

"We didn't receive a tape this morning," he murmured.

"The security system works," Ziva said confidently. She gestured at Turner. "When he reached about fifteen feet from the back door, it alerted me to alien presence."

"How long is it he has to identify himself with the keypad?" Gibbs asked, opening one of Jenny's drawers and shuffling through it.

"Fifteen seconds," Ziva answered.

"Mossad grade security," Jethro mumbled, picking up a haphazardly placed paperweight. He eyed it interestedly.

"Not quite," Kowalski said with a brief smirk. "Mossad would give you five seconds."

"He is right," Ziva said.

Jethro threw the paperweight down and picked up two tubes of lipstick.

"Ziva," he questioned sharply, reading the name of one of them. Jenny had lipstick called _Whorehouse_? "You think there's any credit to this Ari theory?"

The Israeli officer didn't even blink, and yet Jethro knew it did all kinds of things to her to hear her brother's name mentioned.

"I do not believe it would be the aim of any terrorist organization to take vengeance upon the Director, if they were concerned with personal vengeance at all," she remarked mildly. "Theirs is a vendetta against a people, a way of life—and if they were to take a personal interest, it would be in you, Gibbs," she pointed out. He heard the silent '_or me'_ after her sentence ended.

"However, it is possible," she allowed after a moment. "Ari hated Jenny on a professional level."

Gibbs looked at her sharply.

"And personally?" he demanded.

Ziva met his eyes and just raised her shoulders in a shrug.

"Kowalski, you were with her in Israel," Carton said.

"And Cairo," Kowalski added gruffly. Jethro looked at him curiously, then glancing at the name of the other lipstick. He slipped the top off and looked at the colour.

"Agent…Gibbs," Carton remarked hesitantly. "You should…stop," he recommended.

Agent Turner was staring at Jethro in disbelief.

Gibbs glared at them both, dropped the lipstick back in the drawer, and promptly picked up her glasses. Carton sighed.

"Stan," Gibbs said, looking at Kowalski as if he hadn't heard Carton at all. "Look for the connections that there might be between the men who killed Agent Todd and this," he ordered. "Work with my team if you find anything."

"My first priority is the Director's safety, Agent Gibbs," Kowalski pointed out, not moving from where he was standing.

Gibbs placed Jenny's glasses on her desk and picked up the lipstick with the offensive name again, this time looking at its colour. He glared at Kowalski over it.

"So is mine," he said sharply. His tone brooked no other argument and though technically he had no authority over Kowalski, Stan turned to follow his orders reluctantly.

The protective agent opened the door and came face to face with the redhead in question and stepped out of the way, allowing her into her office with a flourish.

"Forget your lip-stick?" Jethro drawled pointedly, holding it up and arching an eyebrow.

"Agent Gibbs! Out of my cha—get _out_ of my desk!"

* * *

Jethro sat on the couch outside the Director's office, staring unwaveringly at Cynthia as she worked. He was doing so mostly to get on the assistant's harried nerves, and a little bit because he had nothing else to stare at. He was well aware he was making the young woman nervous, but he barely gave her a second thought.

He was thinking about Jenny; he had been thinkin about Jenny all day and he was about ready to kill the woman for it.

Before last night, he had known exactly what was between them: anger, silence, uncertainty, and a sordid, failed affair. After last night, he was back to where they started the morning after Marseille in Paris: unrepentant, and unprepared.

He figured it was best she was going back to her home tonight. More than likely they needed a night away from each other, to better understand just what the hell was going on.

On top of the personal maelstrom, Gibbs had an increasingly bad feeling about the assassination threat problem. He felt like something was being missed. He was uncertain the Ari theory held water. He found it odd that so much surveillance equipment had found its way into Jenny's house without her knowledge, when she was particularly sharp about sensing if someone had been in her things when she was gone.

It was as if someone she had trusted betrayed her, and Gibbs hesitated to ask if she had—ah, _entertained_ any guests in her house that might have placed bugs. He wasn't sure if he hesitated because it was a delicate subject, or because he knew he'd be jealous.

"Cancel it," he heard barked sharply, as Jenny's office door flung open and she stood in the door way, buttoning on a coat he'd never seen before. She flipped her hair out of her collar and looked up, her eyes meeting his. She paused.

Cynthia looked over and stood up, her brown knitting together, and Kowalski strolled out the door, rolling his eyes, already on his cell phone.

"Cancel what?" Cynthia asked importantly, half-way to picking up the phone on her desk.

"Stan is taking care of it," Jenny answered. "Go home, Cynthia, I'm taking an early night. You deserve the same privilege."

Cynthia looked shell-shocked.

"It's only six o'clock," she stated.

"And I have not seen my townhouse in nearly five days," Jenny answered pointedly. She walked into the outer office, slipping her manicured hands into her coat pockets. Cynthia stared at her, dumbfounded, and the redhead turned to Jethro.

Agent Carton walked out of her office, shutting the door and locking it soundly behind him.

"Who's getting shafted?" Jethro drawled mildly, lifting his eyebrow.

"Morrow," she answered shortly. "Old friend; he'll understand," she said. "What do you want, Jethro?" she asked tiredly.

"You," he answered after a moment, and let the word hang alone for a split second, "Home safe."

She breathed out slowly, parting her lips slightly.

"Meeting's cancelled," Agent Kowalski said, poking his head back into the outer office. Cynthia was gathering up her things. "Turner's gone ahead to your house ma'am," he added.

"Why?" asked Carton sharply, turning his head to Kowalski.

Kowalski looked at him, somewhat offended at the tone.

"I was concerned whoever was watching her might have turned, in desperation, to watching her at work. Figured if he thinks she's left with Turner and he tails 'im, we have a chance at grabbing him," he explained just a sharply.

Carton looked at his fellow agent for a moment and then nodded shortly.

"David find anything, Gibbs?" Carton asked, looking at Jethro hopefully.

Jethro shook his head slowly, still looking mildly at Jen, trying to figure out what was going through her head. Cynthia came around her desk.

"Are you sure you don't need anything else, Director?"

"No, Cynthia," Jenny said softly. "I need to go home," she added in a growl, suddenly looking around at all of them. "Might we cease with the elaborate security measures?"

"Not on my watch!" Carton said cheerfully. He moved away from the door and stood next to Gibbs, looking seriously at Jenny.

The redhead glared at her protective agent and turned on her heel, taking leave of the room quickly. Carton smirked and walked after her, falling in to step behind her as Kowalski led the way down the stairs.

Jethro let his hand fall to the small of Jenny's back on the stairs and she turned her head towards him slightly, no words on her lips.

"You think the ghost of Ari is after me?" she asked in a soft, bitter voice after a moment. He hardly missed a beat, but gave her a look sharply.

"Ziva," she said simply, giving him the name of her informant.

Jethro made a noise in the back of his throat; skeptical.

"Not likely," he said gruffly after a moment. He paused by his desk to get his gun, and she stopped too, watching him, glaring at Carton to make sure the two guards moved along to the elevator to wait.

"Your gut is bothering you," she said in an undertone. He slammed his desk drawer shut and came around the desk, standing closer to her. Almost nose to nose.

"Ari seems like a good shield," he muttered, "for someone closer to home."

Jenny looked at him, her lips parted.

"You think it's someone I trust."

"If a stranger had put things in your house, Jen, you'd feel it. You'd know," he said. "I know you would."

Jenny swallowed hard. She looked over her shoulder at the two agents patiently holding the door open.

"You think it's one of them, Jethro," she said hoarsely, her green eyes wide. He could tell she didn't believe him.

"You think I'm still playing Director-babysitter for fun?" he growled, taking her arm gently above the shoulder and leading her to the elevator.

He stepped in to the elevator with her, and he noticed she stood close to him. He moved his hand from her shoulder back to the small of her back, and he didn't give a damn what Carton or Kowalski thought about it, and he knew they were watching him closely.

* * *

If there was anything Jenny Shepard trusted more than ironclad facts, it was the gut of her former partner-slash-lover.

At least his voiced concern had given her something to stress over other than the fact that she had slept with him last night and dumped a whole lot of complicated all over her hectic life, but now she was scared, and that was the only word to describe it.

It scared her that she had been living in a house where she had been constantly watched, though she had remained stoic and unconcerned until they'd hauled her off to protective custody under Gibbs. It scared her that one of the men she trusted with her life, personal and professional, were the target of Jethro's suspicions.

Stan was on the phone whilst Carton drove, both of them focused on their jobs. After a moment, Kowalski set aside his blackberry.

"Turner says the house is clear; he wasn't followed."

"Systems all working?"

"Affirmative," Kowalski answered, "They were cleared by David, though, and Sciuto was the only one who had access to their inner workings before installment. Everything is clear."

Carton looked at Jenny in the rear view mirror.

"Make you feel better, ma'am?" he asked, lifting an eyebrow.

"I will feel immensely better when you stop treating me like an unruly toddler," she returned coolly.

Kowalski snorted.

"Yikes," he said teasingly. "You think getting laid would warm her up a little."

"Stan," warned Carton, rolling his eyes.

Jenny glared at the men through her eyelashes, her jaw set firmly. She half blamed her well-meaning agents for placing her in the position they had when they'd trapped her in Jethro's house for nigh on three days.

She was unsure what their night together meant. And she didn't see him 'taking her back', so to speak, without some sort of brutal battle that left them back where they started.

Carton pulled the car into her drive and turned both the car and the heat off. She felt cold instantly, but a feeling of relief washed through her to see her home. She was so full of thoughts and emotions at the moment, she felt like she'd shatter if she couldn't just run a hot bath and soak away the world for an hour or so.

Kowalski got out of the car and walked up towards the door, glancing towards the street where Turner's car was already parked. Carton looked back at her.

"We can take you back to Agent Gibbs' house for another night," he said in a quiet voice. "If you'd rather wait until we figure this mess out to come home."

She looked at Carton sharply for a moment, unsure if his comment had been some sort of dig about what he'd barged in on this morning in Jethro's bedroom.

She chose not to say anything and simply let herself out of the car, listening to him get out as well. She crossed her arms over her chest after slamming the door, and glanced behind the black SUV she stood next to, watching Jethro walk up the drive with his hands in his pockets.

"Where is Turner?" he asked shortly.

"In the house, I figure," Carton said, coming around the front of the car and starting towards the stoop. Kowalski came down off the front porch and went towards the mailbox. He muttered something about no one having sense to get the mail and marched off to retrieve the backlog of it.

The front door open and light flooded the porch and front walk.

"Are you going to stand outside all night?" groused Turner, drawing their attention. A look of distaste crossed Jenny's face and she narrowed her eyes, turning to walk up the sidewalk towards her door. She slipped her hands back into her pockets.

"Set the alarm, Robbie," Carton said, his head bent forward against the cold as he led the way. Jethro could hear the methodical beeping that warned they had very few seconds to punch in the code before the alarm went off.

Turner was slow to move. He pushed off the door frame and leaned into the hall, checking the time. He reached over, stretching his arm, and pressed his hand against the button. Only one button, and everything went silent.

"_HEY_," Kowalski shouted roughly, suddenly, and Carton turned sharply.

"Jen," barked Jethro, and he grabbed her shoulder from behind, jerking her violently back towards him. He forced her to turn away from the house and before she could even turn to slap him for the rough treatment, her vision went up in flames, shrapnel, and black smoke.

She was knocked to the ground, by the blast or by Jethro, she didn't know. She bit her tongue and slammed her shoulder into the concrete, and a harsh scream escaped her lips. She was winded, and she closed her eyes and instinctively covered her head, but someone's hand was already protecting the vulnerable places around her neck and skull.

"_Goddamnit_," she heard Jethro growl somewhere close to her ear.

"Carton. _CARTON_. Sydney, _SYD_," she heard shouts. They were gruff, angry shouts.

"Get up," Jethro said gruffly. "Jenny." He helped her up, his hands firm and forceful. She coughed, wincing as his arm brushed against her bruised shoulder. "Jenny," he said again, turning her face towards him. His palm pressed against her cheek and he surveyed her face briefly.

"Come on," he said shortly, apparently satisfied that she was in decent condition. His voice sounded muffled and funny, and he half-carried her towards his car until she shoved him away a little and walked herself, blinking away tears and dust.

"Get in the car, Jen," he ordered, opening the passenger side of his car and slamming it after she stumbled in and, reflexively, buckled her seatbelt. He threw himself in the driver's seat and revved the engine. She was disconcerted. She had no idea where her agents were, and Jethro didn't seem to give a damn.

She blinked rapidly, breathing in deeply, trying to catch her bearings.

"Are you okay?" Jethro demanded, glancing at her between keeping his eyes on the road and driving like a bat out of hell. "Jen, answer me. _Are_ _you_ _okay_?"

"Yes," she rasped. "I don't know. My shoulder." She was in shock. Something had blown her entire front porch to pieces. The old oak door her father crafted and painted. Noemi's beloved hydrangeas—

"Are you bleeding, anything other than your nose? You feel dizzy?"

She reached up and touched her nose, shocked when her fingers came away covered in sticky red blood. She closed her eyes and leaned back, choking on suppressed tears.

"Shut up," she snapped suddenly, in a panic. She pressed her lips together and covered her eyes with her hand. One of her heels was broken. Her head was pounding but she wasn't dizzy. He didn't say another word, but she could feel his tenseness.

"Are you hurt, Jethro?" she asked shakily after a moment, her voice shaky.

He didn't answer for almost an entire minute.

"No."

Then there was silence. For a brief moment she was reminded of a car chase in the Alsace-Lorraine region of France.

She had been driving then, because Jethro had a bullet in his abdomen.

She still felt like she couldn't breathe, and she barely avoided biting her tongue again when Jethro brought the car to an abrupt stop. She sat up, leaning forward, and braced her palms against the dashboard, opening her eyes wide.

Jethro got out of the car, shutting off the headlights, and he came around to her door, opening it for her. He crouched down and pulled her leg towards him, and she noticed then that there were splinters in her foot. And then they started to hurt like hell.

"Jesus Christ," she swore, reaching down and grabbing below her knee, as if it would stay the pain.

Jethro slipped his arm around her waist and helped her to stand without putting weight on the foot and he slammed the car door shut for her.

"Limp," he ordered gruffly. She felt his holstered gun pressed against her hip as he held her tightly against his side. "It isn't far, Jenny," he added softly, nodding his head towards his front door.

Inside the front door, she leaned against the wall, her head light, and watched him shut his door and lock it—deadbolt it, even. She drew in a shaky breath and watched him yank off his heavy pea coat. She pushed off the wall and bolted for the kitchen.

"Jen," he barked, whirling around to reach for her. "_Don't_ walk on that foot—" he warned, storming after her into the kitchen. She turned on the sink faucet and vomited, her shoulders convulsing.

His shoulders fell and he shut his mouth, coming up beside her. He pulled her hair back gingerly and rubbed a hand over her back, unsure if the blood in her mouth, a concussion, or just raw fear was making her vomit.

He handed her one of the morning's coffee mugs from the drainer to rinse out her mouth with, leaning over her for a wash cloth as he turned the water to warm. She straightened up a little, her eyes closed.

He folded up the wash cloth and wrung it out, gesturing for her to lean back against the counter.

"Tilt your head back," he said gently, holding the wash cloth to her bloody nose. He pressed his hand against her neck. "Jen, it's all right," he murmured. He brushed his fingers soothingly against her skin, holding the wash cloth with gentle pressure.

His phone started ringing shrilly. Jenny shuddered at the loud noise. He pulled his hand away to answer it and she felt cold.

"Gibbs," he said shortly into the receiver, and then, after a few moments, "She's safe, Carton." After another brief pause, he barked: "Where the hell do you _think_ I took her?" In another moment, he hung up the phone and threw it onto the counter.

Jenny reached up and pulled the cloth and his hand away from her face.

"It stopped bleeding," she said shakily. "Jethro, you have burns, you're bleeding," she said, her voice catching.

"Forget it, I'm fine," he brushed her concern off, not even glancing at the angry red burns all over his shoulders and the blood soaking his shirt from where he knew shrapnel had sliced just below his ribs.

She bit her lip.

"Sit up on the counter," he said, pointing. "Watch your head," he mumbled, putting his hand behind her head anyway, to protect her from knocking it against the counter as she hoisted herself up.

Jethro turned the water to a little warmer water and stretched out her leg on the narrow sliver of counter before the sink, pushing the expensive fabric of her slacks up to her knee. He looked balefully at the wooden splinters in her foot and moved in between her legs. He put his arm on her calf to hold her leg still and turned his back to her, picking up the discarded wash cloth.

"Hold still, Jenny."

He felt her tense up.

He plucked the three splinters from her foot quickly, so she barely had time to register the pain, and then he pressed the hot wash cloth over the wounds, taking her shoe off once the splinters were gone.

He lathered the wash cloth with soap to clean off her foot; and Jenny leaned forward and started to cry against his shoulder. This was a woman whom he'd seen cry perhaps once during their affair in Europe, and yet here was the second time in three days she'd dissolved into tears around him.

He swallowed and continued cleaning her foot, finally rinsing it off and drying it with a dish towel. Jethro turned towards her and wrapped his arms around her shoulders, resting one hand on the back of her head.

"Calm down, Jen," he murmured softly.

She pressed her palms against his neck, breathing in his familiar, comforting sawdust scent. The shock of what had happened was like the worst wake-up call she could have imagined. If her life, if her ambitions and what she'd worked for, could light up in smoke so easily, why had she ever thought it was good to throw away what she had with Jethro?

So what if he hadn't ever been able to tell her he loved her. He had always been there. And even though she'd put him through the wringer, he was here now.

She pressed her lips to his neck and closed her eyes, breathing in again, and then she kissed his neck again. She pushed his head back and kissed his mouth. He kissed her back. She kissed him harder pulling him closer, and he pulled back, his hand pressed against her shoulder.

"Take it slow, Jen," he murmured hoarsely.

She slipped off the counter, favoring her foot, her body aligned closely with his. He brushed her cut lip with his thumb and eyed her solemnly, his expression guarded.

"You're in shock," he soothed. "You want coffee?"

"It was Agent Turner?" she asked him shakily. "He tried to kill me…he could've killed _you_—"

"Jenny," Jethro interrupted, giving her a hard look.

"Coffee," she said, nodding her head slightly. She let her hands slide down her shoulders as he moved to start it, and then she reached behind her and put trembling hands on the counter.

"Jethro," she said hoarsely after a quiet moment, and she looked over at him, the beginning of so many words forming on her lips. She broke off though; she heard the front door click.

He had his gun in his hand so fast she didn't even see him reach for it, and he stood in front of her in less than three strides, holding up a hand to shush her.

"Gibbs, it's Carton," the agent called loudly. "Kowalski's with me; the area is cleared."

But still, Jethro didn't lower his weapon until he saw both men with his own eyes.

"Director, are you all right?" Carton asked urgently.

"Yes," she said clearly.

Jethro set his gun loudly on the counter.

"What the hell happened?" he growled.

"_Fuck_ if I know!" Kowalski almost shouted back, his eyes lighting up lividly. "I saw a spark light in the doorway and then out of nowhere the porch exploded! Turner blew the goddamn door off!" he growled, agitated.

"We don't know the details," Carton reprimanded angrily. "We don't _know_ Turner orchestrated it—"

"He _installed_ the fucking system!" roared Kowalski, rounding on his colleague. "Unless you think _Scuito_ armed the explosives?"

Carton swallowed, looking sick. He looked over at Jenny and Gibbs. Gibbs glared back with an impassive and stone cold look.

"Is Turner dead?" Jethro asked harshly.

Carton nodded slowly. Jenny watched the scene before her, silent, trying to process everything. She knew she and Turner had their differences. She knew he disliked her. But this was devastating. She never _dreamed_…

"We left him to watch her house at night! He was there alone for hours on end—he got there before us tonight," Kowalski went on, lividly, mumbling. He slammed his fist into a wall and cursed. "Hell, the idea that it might be connected to Ari was his _bullshit_ theory—"

"Control yourself, Stan!" barked Carton, narrowing his eyes. He looked at Gibbs. "Get your team to the scene immediately," he ordered.

Jethro picked up his phone, having already decided to set his trustworthy team on getting to the bottom of this. On top of that, he wasn't going to let Jenny out of his sight until they knew the particulars of what was going on.

Because to his ultimate dismay, he didn't feel that sense of relief that should come with finding out who was behind the attempts to hurt Jenny—he felt worse, twice as bad; he had missed something. Something was wrong.

He called his team and ordered them to drop what they were doing and get their asses to the Director's town house. He gave Ziva point on this one, as she knew Jenny best.

"You take a hit?" Gibbs asked Carton, giving the other man a narrow look. Carton had been in front of them, and he didn't look too roughed up. Agent Carton winced and subconsciously turned his head, reached around to his back.

"The door hit him," snapped Kowalski. "You sure you're okay, Director? You don't need a hospital?" he asked rapidly, moving towards Jenny.

She shook her head icily, making it clear she didn't want him to step any closer. He looked over her bloody coat and the way she favored her leg and made a noise of anger.

The coffee maker rang out.

"I'm going to check the perimeter again," Kowalski barked. "Fuck," he swore, and they heard the door slam. Jenny winced.

Carton sighed and rubbed his forehead, watching Jethro hand a coffee mug to Jenny and rest a hand on her shoulder. He seemed to be ignoring all but her, and Carton paced back and forth, trying to figure out where to go from here.

"Turner," he growled in disbelief. "Turner's always been so thorough, so flawless…" he was talking to himself.

"Take off that coat," he heard Gibbs say to the Director. "It isn't dislocated," he heard the other man murmur, and he looked around, in time to see the silver-haired agent stroke the Director's bare shoulder gently. She was wearing a sleeveless blouse.

"I have to wash the blood off," she rasped.

"Yeah," Agent Gibbs said gruffly. "Come on."

Carton turned, and he stared apprehensively as Gibbs held the Director's coffee and warned her to put little weight on her foot; it was apparently injured.

"Stop," Carton warned. "Your personal relationship with her compromises your professional responsibility," he said sharply.

Jethro looked pissed at the very suggestion.

"Back off," he growled seriously.

"I am _serious_, Agent Gibbs—"

"There isn't a personal relationship," snarled Jethro, and Carton was about to throw the events of the morning back at him when he caught sight of the look on the Director's face—and he decided they needed to be alone, because she looked like her heart was broken.

* * *

She listened to him talk to his team—DiNozzo, it sounded like, by the way he was growling—and lay on his bed, reluctant to get under the covers in case he didn't want her here. Her body was sore but at least she felt clean. Her hair was wet, and the coffee was getting cold. She stared at the mug where it sat on the bedside table.

She kept thinking about the way her vision had burst into flames at her townhouse.

She kept thinking about the angry burns on Jethro's arms and back and the ghastly cut along his lower ribcage. He didn't even seem to notice he was hurt. She thought about him making love to her. She thought about what she'd told him in the basement: that she didn't want to die with this many regrets.

She thought about what _he_ was thinking.

She felt trapped—not in a bad way. It was like in the absence of keeping busy, when she was forced to be on lockdown—specifically with him—she was facing everything she'd ignored, and it felt better than keeping it locked up.

She was unsure what had been behind his statement that there was no personal relationship between them; it confused her, not to mention made her look like a bit of a slut to her agents. There had always been a personal relationship between them, whether it had been sexual, emotional, or charged with anger.

It was personal.

And Agent Turner had tried to kill her.

Jethro hung up the phone, and a few minutes later, he sat down on the bed next to her. She felt him rest his hand on her hip.

"You still awake, Jen?"

"Yeah," she answered thickly.

"The damage to your house is easily fixable," he said after a moment. "Abby is working on discerning what kind of bomb it was."

"I trusted Robbie," she said distractedly. "It doesn't make any sense," she added softly. She reached up and pushed her hair back, her hand shaking. She stared at the coffee mug.

He was so angry. He reached out and stroked her hair reflexively, like he used to do during particularly stressful missions in Europe, and he set his jaw in veritable rage. His gut was still churning; he was still on edge, and he was pissed.

His personal conflict with Jenny aside, she had proven herself a damn good Director in the few months she'd held the job. There was no reason for this. She twisted and rolled over to face him, adjusting her head slightly on the pillow.

It made him even angrier to see the bruise blooming where she'd bitten her lip.

"An arms dealer killed my father," she said out of the blue, her voice low, and hoarse. He looked at her strangely. "It was ruled suicide. He was an army colonel. They framed him as a traitor," she continued. She paused, her lip shaking slightly. "I wanted revenge. I wanted to hunt him down. I needed," she searched for words. "I needed the power to do it. The—authority."

Jethro looked at her. He didn't know why she was telling him this, what brought it on, or where precisely he was going, but he was confident the next words that came out of his mouth pertained to her monologue:

"Authority you get as head of an American federal agency?" he asked gruffly, his eyes narrow and cool as he tried to make sense of her.

She nodded.

"I fixated on the Director's job. It was all that mattered—until Paris. Paris threw a damn monkey wrench into everything."

He understood that 'Paris' was a euphemism for himself, and kept silent. He had never known her to reveal anything about her past. He knew almost nothing about her life before she'd been assigned to his team. He did know her mother had died when she was young. Her father must have been the world to her.

"And I couldn't let go," she said simply, her voice almost faint with the effort it was taking not to cry again. "I was young and I was stubborn and I was insecure—and when you, dammit, Jethro, when you threw those _stupid_ words in my face that night…I couldn't. I ran away. And I couldn't face you."

_That'll be the day._

He had never regretted four words so much in his entire life. He had always known, in the dark recesses of his mind, that half the reason he was so beyond furious with her for leaving was because he had felt about her like he had about Shannon, and when Jenny had told him she loved him, it had felt like it had with Shannon.

He had invested everything in Shannon, and Shannon was dead. He didn't want to experience that again. He had pushed her away. Because it was easier to be angry than to grieve.

"Why tell me now, Jen?" he asked mildly. It would have meant so much more back then, if it could have prevented this all from happening. Then again, maybe their relationship 'back then' would have crumbled into bitterness like all of his others and they would be worse off now.

"I haven't had anything to distract me," she said thickly. "They locked me up with you." She closed her eyes as if someone had just stopped her from hurting and she looked at him again after a minute. "I slept better last night than I had in years."

Jethro pulled his hand off her hip. He stared at her, and then he reached out and touched her face, his palm against her pale cheek. He was unsure if she wanted him to say those three little words right now, but he knew he couldn't. He couldn't say it back then, and he for damn sure couldn't say it now, not when he was loathe trusting his feelings to her again.

She had left herself so vulnerable.

He stretched out beside her on the bed and let his eyes run over her, just memorizing the shape of her legs, the way she looked like this, in this moment, curled up on his bed next to him again. He didn't feel so angry anymore, at her or that someone had tried to hurt her.

"You throwing everything you said out the window, Jen? 'No off the job'?" he asked, somewhat callously. He was just throwing up impenetrable defenses, and she could allow him that easily.

"You're on the job," she pointed out seriously. He didn't know what kind of answer it was, but after a moment, it provoked a familiar smirk, and he snorted, a little derisively. He slipped his hand down to her neck and moved closer, lowering his lips to her neck. He took a deep breath.

"I didn't want you to leave, Jenny," he mumbled honestly. His voice was low and gruff. "Never did."

She bowed her head and rested it against his chest. She chewed on her lip, still in shock from the night's events, shocked that she'd spilled the beans about her father—about everything. It was different now, though.

_Something felt wrong and off, but right here it felt right. She had felt better on lock down with Jethro than she had with all of her freedom and power first in Cairo and then as Director._

She felt like something was amiss, but she felt like her life had been poisoned by the need for revenge.

And he listened to her breathe, trying to deal with the magnitude of trust she'd put in him with that story about her father, and he thought he might be able to tell her about Shannon and Kelly one day.

* * *

_Needless to say this story got away with me-I had a muse for the primary part of this chapter and that is IT. The rest worked around it ;) I wrap it up fast in the next; enjoy!_


	4. I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings

_The chapter in which I wrape it all up. Quickly. _

_

* * *

_

"**I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings" [Four]**

There was a subdued uncertainty in the actions of all. It last throughout the getting ready morning routine and the morning coffee and the quiet drive to NCIS headquarters—the Director road with Gibbs, even in the wake of Kowalski's loud and adamant protests.

It was solemn; the death of an NCIS agent was never good—it was worse when he was a suspected traitor. Jethro had fallen asleep with Jenny; he hadn't spoken to his team, and he knew they'd have been up all night scraping any evidence together for the sake of giving him something.

He needed it proved beyond an ironclad doubt that Robbie Turner had been behind it all.

Because it didn't seem to fit. It didn't feel right.

Upon arrival at work, Jethro made sure Kowalski and Carton escorted Jenny to her office, and he stormed into the bullpen, shooting a piercing look around at his team. They all looked tired. DiNozzo shot out of his seat and almost fell over his trashcan.

"Is the Director okay, Boss?" McGee asked earnestly, his Boy Scout face the picture of concern.

"She's fine," Gibbs answered curtly, looking at DiNozzo pointedly.

"Turner didn't have any relatives. The only one on record—living, at least—is a sister who lives in Arizona. So he didn't have anything to lose—Agent Carton was reluctant to believe Turner did it, because he said no matter what, Turner would have had to sacrifice himself to get the Director, because he pressed the button to arm the bomb," DiNozzo explained.

"I think that gives credit to the Ari theory," McGee piped up. "That kind of sacrifice for the sake of killing a target is akin to suicide bombers."

Gibbs nodded curtly and turned his eyes to Ziva coolly, to see what she seemed to think. She looked at him with guarded charcoal eyes and picked up a file on her desk.

"You need to go see Abby," she said mildly.

"Ooooh, yeah, Boss," Tony said, sucking in his breath. "We think she found something, but she locked herself in her lab and said she'd only talk to you."

Ziva stood up gracefully and swept the file into her arms. She tilted her head towards the elevator.

"You're in charge," Gibbs pointed to DiNozzo, aware he'd probably regret this conversation.

DiNozzo made a noise that sounded like an excited squeal and Gibbs followed Ziva to the elevator.

Once the door closed, she handed the file to Gibbs.

"While they threw paper bits at one another and profiled Turner, I did a full background search on Kowalski, including his locked missions from his time at Mossad," she said smoothly.

Jethro glanced at her and flicked open the file.

"He worked with Jenny there?"

"Occasionally, yes. Jenny's role in work with me was espionage and sabotage; Kowalski, on the other hand, was long term ops and linguistics," the Israeli explained. "He worked intimately with," she paused. "Ari."

Jethro drank in the file.

"Kowalski's loyal," he grunted.

"And Turner is the perfect scapegoat," Ziva returned mockingly. "It is common knowledge he dislikes Jenny."

Jethro shut the file and looked over at her.

"What reason does Kowalski have to be after the Director?"

Ziva shrugged her shoulders.

"Do not ask me. There is no record that he and Ari were particularly close. It is in fact highly likely, due to circumstance, that Turner blew the house when he pressed the button—which he had time to rig," Ziva looked over at him sharply, with her searching eyes. "But I know you Gibbs, and you know that is too simple."

He resisted the urge to slam his fist against the wall.

The elevator opened before Abby's lab, the door to which was, indeed, shut. He marched up to it and turned the knob, banging on it when he found it locked.

"Abs. It's me," he shouted.

A moment later, her eye appeared in a crack in the door.

"Who's with you?" she asked, sniffling a little. He leaned to the side to reveal Ziva.

"Oh," Abby said softly. "She can come in, too," she said, allowing them to enter. Her eyes were red; she looked like she'd been crying.

"What is it, Abs?" Gibbs asked, concerned.

"I miss Kate!" the Goth cried, throwing her arms around Gibbs' neck. He caught her, his eyebrows going up in surprise. Ziva looked away immediately. The admission no doubt made her immensely uncomfortable.

"What brought this on?" Gibbs asked, patting her back.

She leaned back and sniffled again, her lip quivering.

"I miss her too," he said, smiling a little. She whirled around and tugged him over to her computers.

"This," she said, gesturing angrily at the electronic stuff before her. "I was going over the evidence from the Director's house. The bomb was installed perfectly, by someone who knew how to do it—and knew how to make a damn good one, and wire it well. The blast was actually triggered by a cell phone call," she said, clicking on some things. She brought up some numbers.

"Not a button?" Gibbs asked sharply.

Abby shook her head.

"Whose cell phone?" Gibbs growled.

"That's why I thought about Kate!" Abby said, stamping her foot. "I can't trace the call source, but the number and ID that showed up on the motherboard of the bomb was…_look_—" she pointed at the screen.

Ziva leaned in next to Gibbs, and read the same word beneath the obscure number.

_Ari Haswari. _

Gibbs didn't say a word. But he straightened up.

"Ziva," he said in a low voice after a moment, "get McGee down here." He turned to the Goth and met her eyes very seriously.

"Abby. It is imperative that you find out whose cell phone that call really came from," he growled. "Jenny's life depends on it."

"How come you're calling her Jenny now?" Abby asked, cocking her head.

"Her life, Abby!" barked Gibbs.

She jumped, and nodded profusely.

Gibbs didn't say another word. He turned on his heel. Ziva was gone. He had the file on Kowalski in his hand. He marched out of Abby's lab—

* * *

-and barged into Cynthia's office without pretense, making to stride straight into Jenny's office.

"She isn't in, Agent Gibbs!" Cynthia yelled in exasperation, standing up and smacking her palms on her desk. Gibbs had his cell phone in hand suddenly.

"Where is she?"

"She went out to get coffee," the young woman said irritably. "Then she has a meeting on Capitol Hill."

Gibbs glared at Cynthia as if it were her fault.

"Who's with her?"

"Her security," Cynthia answered, still annoyed. "Stan and Sydney drove her."

Jethro threw an angry look at Jenny's office door. He sat down pointedly on the couch opposite Cynthia's desk.

"Feel free to wait for her for hours on end," Cynthia said sarcastically.

He glared at her stonily. She sat down with a huff, rolling her eyes.

* * *

Jennifer Shepard's head was pounding. Senator Kates was an oily, sneaky man, and meetings with him were never enjoyable. She needed his vote on a budget bill, however, and what was supposed to be a quick, friendly negotiation had turned into a rough game of political hardball.

She was tired, emotionally and physically. She was surprised Jethro hadn't attempted to force her to call in to work. Her shoulder was killing her, and because the attack on her home was hushed up to preserve the status quo, the bruise on her lip was drawing quite a few curious looks.

Not to mention that her foot was aching inside her suede boot, which she knew, was at least more comfortable than the heels she usually opted for.

She had been in that stupid meeting for four hours, and her coffee had gone cold and been trashed long before it was over.

"Take the rest of the day, Director," Carton said, for once sitting in the passenger seat.

"I have work to do," she said shortly.

"You also need to recover."

"And where do you suggest I do so? My house is indisposed."

Carton turned and looked at her, lifting an eyebrow.

"Is there some reason we can't take you back to the safe house?"

"It isn't safe anymore," Kowalski growled. He had been in a livid mood all day. He seemed personally offended by Turner's betrayal.

Jenny looked at him sharply.

"You don't suspect Jethro of being involved?" she asked icily, ready to fight for him.

"Not at all," Kowalski answered sarcastically, "You know NCIS policy as well as I do, ma'am," he went on. "We do not assign agents to cases in which they are personally invested which, contrary to what he says, Agent Gibbs apparently is."

"NCIS agents personally invest themselves in every case they take," Jenny said curtly. It was true; some were more personal than others, but every agent got hung up on solving something—and when that happened, it became personal.

"You, ma'am, are biased," growled Kowalski.

"Enough," said Carton tiredly. He felt Kowalski's bitterness was uncalled for and Jenny needed rest. Kowalski was way too up in arms about everything. He needed to scale it back. He was edgy.

"I apologize," Kowalski said after a moment. "I'm pissed off, Director. It's my job to keep you safe and—"

"I know, Stan," Jenny said, turning her head and looking out the window.

She didn't speak another word, until her phone rang and, reading the name on the screen, she answered it.

"Jethro," she greeted in a voice that could be called pleasant.

He sounded tense, and she put up with it.

"My meeting ran longer than expected," she said. "I am on my way back to the office now, against my security's wishes."

"What?" barked Gibbs. Jenny narrowed her eyes.

"Sydney is attempting to coax me into taking the day," she said, a little nettled at his tone. He paused and muttered something about that being a good idea.

"Jen," Jethro said distractedly. "Where is Turner's cell phone?"

Jenny pursed her lips, and then covered the receiver and repeated the question to her agents.

"Where did that come from?" Kowalski asked, turning around in concern. Sydney smacked his shoulder and ordered him to pay attention to driving. He turned around and answered:

"All of Turner's effects are at NCIS," he tilted his head after a moment, seeming confused. "His cell wasn't on him."

Jenny informed Jethro of this fact.

He hung up.

* * *

Gibbs stared at his team, and his eyes finally rested on Abby and the report in her hands.

"You're sure?"

"The call was routed from Agent Turner's cell phone to read as a call from Ari Haswari," Abby said again, confirming what she'd already told him.

And Turner's phone wasn't amongst his effects, meaning it was thus plausible that someone he'd been working with had it in order to keep him- or herself anonymous.

Turner had made the call.

Turner had installed the security system.

Turner had checked the house every night to watch for intruders.

It had to be Turner.

Jethro turned his eyes to Ziva, and she lifted her shoulder as if to say: what is done is done.

But it still felt wrong. He could be over thinking it. This "wrong" feeling cold be stemming from the fact that his subconscious was trying to tell him getting involved with Jenny again was wrong, but he doubted it. Even his subconscious followed his groin when it came to women.

He ran a hand over his face and made a noise of discontent in the back of his throat. He reached out for Abby's file.

"I'll brief the Director's security."

"It could only be him, Gibbs," McGee said. "The equipment was clear when I checked it. It was clear when Abby checked it."

Gibbs nodded absently. He tucked the file under his arm and marched upstairs to Cynthia's office, this time planting himself down to wait. Last time, he had been dragged away by boredom and an inability to just _sit_.

He wanted to report this; to gauge Carton and Kowalski's reactions and opinions.

It was nearing four in the afternoon.

* * *

Jenny was clearly stressed.

He watched her walk around her office, a little cold, it looked like—her coat was still stained with blood and had been forgone—and searching for an envelope of information.

"Damn meeting ran over almost three hours," she swore under her breath. "Go ahead and warm the car up, Stan, I'm going to be late."

"Another meeting?" Jethro asked sharply.

"The one I _cancelled_ yesterday," she said, winching as she pulled her expensive leather briefcase onto her shoulder and the weight of it hurt the injury. Gracefully, she transferred it to the other arm, reaching up and self-consciously touching her lip.

"You haven't stopped since this morning," he growled protectively.

"I don't want to think about it," she snapped. "Let me get through this meeting and then I can have a meltdown about one of my inner circle going rogue," she said sardonically.

He knew it was a defense mechanism, but still, he bristled silently. She had been through a lot in the past few days, and he knew it was taking its toll. It was probably why she'd spilled so much last night.

"And after this meeting with Morrow?" he prompted shortly.

"I am coming back here to finish case reports before the weekend."

"No," Jethro said curtly. "You need rest."

"Which I cannot have if I have to work to meet deadlines over the weekend!" she almost snarled, shooting him a vicious look. "I know what my limits are, Jethro, take the knight in armor act down a notch."

"With all due respect _Director_ you frequently exceed your _limits_," he said caustically. He'd experienced it before, when she finally collapsed after refusing to take a break.

She knocked something on her desk over in anger and stalked around it, not even a flicker of pain showing in her green eyes when she put full weight on that foot.

"This is what drove me insane in Europe," she hissed. "This attitude you have that _you_ know what's best for _me._"

"I know a damn sight better than you do, Jen," he shot back just as rudely. "You claim you did what was _best for you_ and I seem to remember you crying all over me about it."

She looked briefly like she'd been smacked in the face. Her jaw set, and she pressed her lips together thinly.

"I will see you later tonight, Agent Gibbs," was her icy farewell.

* * *

He sat brooding at his desk, staring absently at his computer screen. He was well aware his team was afraid to speak to him; he looked about as friendly as a bear with a thorn in its paw. He was pissed about that little _altercation_ with Jen and pissed that his gut was still refusing to rest.

"When is the Director due back from her meeting?" Ziva asked mildly, looking over at him. No doubt she was the only one not afraid to take on Leroy Jethro Gibbs when he was brooding.

He glared at her.

"When she's back from her meeting."

Ziva lifted an eyebrow very slowly at him.

"I must speak with Kowalski about what he found at Mossad," she said, as if to herself.

"What?" barked Gibbs shortly.

Ziva looked at him again, unimpressed with his attitude.

"Agent Kowalski was looking into Turner's Ari theory," she reminded him. "It was clearly a diversion, but I wonder how far he was able to get, considering."

Gibbs stared at her.

_Kowalski was with her in Israel. _

He stared at Ziva, glancing slowly down to his watch to check the time. It had been an hour and a half. She should be making her way back her to break her back working all night as per usual.

"Boss," McGee called his attention, ending the phone call he'd been on. "Abby went back and analyzed the spooky phone call Director Shepard caught, the one with Middle Easter tone?"

Gibbs nodded to show he understood.

"It wasn't actually someone Middle Eastern; it was a perfectly executed accent, so now she's running it against Turner's voice to see—"

"No," Gibbs barked suddenly.

He remembered something Ziva had said.

…_Kowalski, on the other hand was long term ops and linguistics_…

Linguistics.

Kowalski's job had been to research the Ari angle; he hadn't. He knew the ins and outs of the languages. He'd known Jenny's every move since she worked with Mossad after Paris, 1999…

He snatched his phone off his desk and, out of habit, dialed Jen's number, only to immediately end the call when he realized her blackberry had been taken from her. Almost as quickly, he dialed her burn phone.

It rang until it simply stopped, for there was no voicemail on a burn phone.

"McGee," Gibbs barked. He scribbled down the number. They all stared at him now, familiar to his sudden bursts of realization—or whatever you called it. "Track that number."

"Who-?"

"NOW."

Gibbs picked up his desk phone and called Cynthia. All it took was for her to tell him the Director had called almost quarter an hour ago to say she'd be back soon. He started pacing. He glared at McGee.

Her meeting with Morrow had taken place maybe ten minutes from NCIS headquarters.

* * *

Stanley Kowalski leaned against the Director's black suburban, his eyes on her and his partner narrowly as they walked towards him in the parking garage. The redhead reached up and rubbed her forehead, looking tired rather than frustrated, and said something snappy to Sydney.

Kowalski rolled his eyes.

He held out his hands as Carton and Shepard approached; Carton clicked the unlock button on his keys and the lights on the car flared to signal it was unlocked.

"I'm driving," Kowalski volunteered shortly.

"Shocking," Carton remarked. He saw the Director into the back seat safely—which earned him a nasty look—and situated himself in the front seat. Kowalski took a deep breath and started the car, turning around to look at the Director as the car heated up.

"You already call the office?"

"Ten minutes ago," she answered irritably. "Much as I admire Morrow, he doesn't know when to shut the hell up. Held us up at the elevator," she grumbled.

Kowalski seemed to hesitate. He locked the doors and backed out, his eyes neutrally ahead of him on the road.

"I'm taking you home," he stated out of the blue.

"Excuse me?" she asked, and he could hear the arched eyebrow and set jaw in her voice.

"You are injured, Director, and you are over-taxing yourself," Kowalski shot back. "I am taking you back to Agent Gibbs' house."

"Did _he_ put you up to this?" she demanded coldly.

"Stan," Carton said, looking at him sideways.

"Listen, Director," Kowalski barked, "it's about time you start taking our word without their being a damn temper tantrum about it every time. Turner used to hate it, how we would do something for your own good just for you to bitch about it or give us the slip. I've had enough. You're taking a break."

She stared at him, half in shock, half outraged, and a tiny bit impressed.

She was not, however, impressed he had used her dead agent against her. Traitor or not.

Jenny fell silent though.

She sat back, staring out the window, not at all unaware of the look Carton kept shooting at Kowalski for his behavior. She wasn't all too surprised. She'd seen Stan get nasty in Cairo and Israel; it was why she liked having him around.

Her phone rang a bit later, and before she could even answer—knowing it was Jethro, since he was the only one not in the car who had her burn number—Kowalski plucked it off the consul she'd absently laid it on and threw it on the dashboard.

It rang unattended.

* * *

"She's in a moving vehicle," McGee announced mere seconds after being ordered to locate the Director's burn phone. He looked up hesitantly at Gibbs. "The car is near your neighborhood."

Gibbs stormed over to him and leaned down to look at the screen. He reached for the number he'd given McGee, wrote down another on it, and tapped insistently, indicating the agent should locate it as well. Gibbs dialed Jenny's phone again.

Why the hell wasn't she answering?

A dot appeared on the screen next to the dot that was Jenny's phone.

"They're together?" McGee said uncertainly.

Gibbs clenched his teeth. He'd written down Robbie Turner's cell phone number. Kowalski had Turner's phone. Kowalski had made the fatal phone call.

"Tim," he said shortly. "You helped Turner install the Director's security system. You're sure no one had access to it but you and him?"

McGee nodded intently.

"Turner did the wiring and I re-checked all the systems and wired it with her wi-fi system to protect against viruses, Turner and Kowalski—"

"Kowalski?" interrupted Gibbs sharply.

"Yeah, he stopped by around lunch to check it out—he had the number code to lock the alarms—"

He remembered. Suddenly, he remembered, the night he and Jen had slept together again, when he'd come upstairs to chase after her—_Kowalski had just left the house to check the perimeter of hers._

Gibbs straightened and turned around. Ziva was already on her feet.

"Get the car," he ordered.

"What's going on?" DiNozzo demanded, standing up hesitantly.

"_Go_!" shouted Gibbs. He pointed at McGee. "You, with me."

He had his keys in his hand, and he didn't bother with the elevator. He took the stairs, and he hoped DiNozzo had enough sense to let Ziva drive. He trusted Ziva's driving as much as he trusted his own.

* * *

Kowalski shut off the car in Agent Gibbs driveway. She was oddly reminded of a similar night four days ago, when she had—

"You planning on refusing to get out of the car again?" Stan asked grimly.

Jenny turned a livid look on him that he could barely discern in the dark and from his vantage point. She unbuckled her seatbelt pointedly.

"Is there a reason you do not want me speaking with Jethro?" she asked sharply, gesturing to her still out of reach phone. It she had listened to it ring ceaselessly at least three more times since the first.

"He's _too_ good," Kowalski answered mystically, and Jenny was reminded of her own flippant words yesterday: _He's that good_.

Carton got out of the car. He opened Jenny's door, and there was a strangely blank look on his face. He met her eyes and held her gaze firmly for a minute. Kowalski slammed the driver side door shut and stormed up the drive.

Jenny felt like she had in the Czech Republic.

"Jenny, stay calm," Carton said quietly.

She heard him call her '_Jenny'_. Never had Carton called her by her Christian name on the job. Something was bothering him, too—no. He knew something. She snatched her phone up, and she got out of the car, stalking past Carton. She wasn't done with Stan. She wanted to have it out with him. His behavior was unacceptable. She flipped the phone open, intent on calling Gibbs first, but as she began to dial, the phone was suddenly knocked violently from her hands.

At the end of her rope, she snapped her head up, eyes flashing, to let Kowalski have it.

Or rather, she was going to, except the barrel of his Sig was staring her in the face.

"Get in the house, _ma'am_."

* * *

Jenny Shepard stared at him. Her throat locked up. She felt like she couldn't breathe.

"No."

He looked at her in disbelief.

"It wasn't a suggestion," Kowalski growled. "Get in the damn house."

"No," she repeated stubbornly, her voice low.

"Do you understand what guns do, sweetheart?"

"If you want me dead, shoot me," she said icily.

They stared each other down.

"CARTON!" Kowalski bellowed. She couldn't help it; she flinched. He was loud, and it was already taking all of her self-control to keep it together.

"Carton, _touch_ your fucking gun again and see what happens."

"Easy, Stan," she heard Carton say. "Just a reflex."

"You've got a lot of nerve," Kowalski growled at her.

"You're waiting for something," she threw back tensely. "Or you'd have already put a bullet in my head."

Kowalski's eyes flashed. They were black with rage. She was beginning to understand that Robbie had been framed; Turner had been a scapegoat. _Kowalski worked with Ari in Israel._

Stan glared at her over the cold, unfeeling metal of his Sig.

"I'm waiting for _him_," he hissed, barely above a whisper.

"I am going to finished what Ari started," he continued in this low, dark voice, "and I am going to shoot _you_ right in front of him."

* * *

In seconds, she went from director to field agent.

Minus the _minor_ fact that she no longer carried a gun on her; that was going to change if she came out of this alive.

She was unsure what Carton was going to do; she knew he wasn't in on this with Kowalski as he'd warned her—in a way—but she knew he couldn't risk going for his gun again; it meant his death or hers—probably both.

"Have you lost your mind, Stan?" she shouted tensely.

He turned his body full towards her, gun trained directly between her eyes. She went to back up, but he grabbed her arm, twisted it, and held her still, removing her 'run away' option.

"Don't tell me you thought Ari's death would go unpunished," Kowalski snarled.

"What was Haswari to _you_?" Jenny demanded, flinching when he pressed the gun to her forehead again. She heard sirens. Kowalski was distracted; he smiled, wickedly, something sinister and wild lighting up in his eyes.

He turned back to her, his face a picture of anger and despair and hatred.

"He was everything _you_ are to Agent Gibbs," he spat viciously.

"I didn't kill Haswari!" she shouted forcefully.

Car doors slammed.

"Kowalski!"

"Put the gun down!"

Neither voice was Gibbs', but one of them was Ziva, and the other, she identified as Tony.

"WHERE ARE YOU, GIBBS?" bellowed Kowalski, looking around in panic.

Jenny swallowed hard. She struggled, but Kowalski nearly crushed her shoulder. She knew if he was _looking_ for Jethro—if Kowalski couldn't _see_ him—then Jethro was taking up a position to pull off a deadly shot.

Sniper style.

"Stanley you know I can make this shot," Ziva growled.

"You wouldn't risk it," he snarled back. He was probably right. Ziva's bullet could whip past Jenny's ear, or it could take half her skull off. Either was a possibility; it wasn't worth a try.

"GIBBS!" Kowalski bellowed again.

"Let her go, if you want him," Carton ordered sharply. "_She_ didn't kill him, you know it."

"I killed Ari," Ziva barked. Her face was hard. "I killed him."

"I know damn _she_ didn't kill 'im," Kowalski roared. He shoved the mouth of the gun against Jenny's nose and she let out a whimper, the first cry of fear she'd allowed. "Neither did you, you entitled little bitch," he snapped at Ziva. "Why do you think I've got _her_?"

He jammed Jenny with the gun again.

"Kowalski!" screeched Carton forcefully.

"What does killing me do?" Jenny demanded, struggling to keep her breath steady. She struggled again, and yet he was managing to hold her still. He held her body close to him; a shield. "Dammit, STAN!"

"Oh, it does it all, tiger," Kowalski said darkly. "Same reason Ari went after Kate. After Sciuto. Same reason he tried to get you. It kills _him_ if I kill you—just like it killed him when they murdered his precious Shannon and Kelly—"

"If you can't beat 'em, Stan," Carton barked suddenly. He pulled his gun from his holster and pointed it directly at Jenny. "Join 'em."

He fired his weapon.

And it all happened so fast.

Jenny screamed, so loudly it hurt her throat, closing her eyes and wrenching away, her head spinning. Had _Carton_ fired at her?

When the shot rang from Carton's gun, McGee and DiNozzo promptly and reflexively double tapped him in the chest. Jenny stumbled to her knees on Jethro's front walk and stayed low, collapsed against the concrete porch.

Warm blood sprayed over her and two shots rang over her head. The sound of Ziva double tapping Kowalski. She knew the quick, soundless spray of blood was no doubt from a bullet Jethro had fired.

She couldn't process what happened.

She reached up shakily to rub the blood on her face, pushing herself halfway up with one arm. She put her hand on something soft and yanked it away when she realized it was Kowalski's body. Ziva touched her arm briefly as she bent over the fallen agent, taking his pulse.

"Dead," she declared over her shoulder.

She felt Jethro next to her more than saw him. She closed her eyes briefly in relief as he wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her away from Kowalski's body. He sat her down on the other side of his porch and crouched in front of her, resting his gun next to her knee.

"Are you okay? Hey," he reached out and put his hands on either of her shoulders, looking up at her critically. His eyes were so blue. She blinked and pressed her lips together, looking straight at him. She wasn't sure she wanted to look at the carnage. "Jen, he's dead. You hurt?"

She shook her head negative slowly, taking a trembling breath.

"Carton," she managed hoarsely. "He fired—"

"He fired a blank," Gibbs said grimly. "Saw 'im drop the bullets in the grass. He did it to distract Kowalski."

"DiNozzo and McGee. They shot him."

"They didn't know, Jenny," Jethro said quietly. "He risked it."

"To save me."

"It was his job," Jethro reminded her.

"To save me," she repeated faintly. She closed her eyes. A few tears escaped her eyes and she bowed her head, pulling her arm up over her face. Five days ago, four men had her trust completely. Now three were dead; one a scapegoat, one a sacrifice, and one a bastard.

And she sat in front of the only man left who had always had every ounce of her trust.

"Turner was set up," she whispered raspily.

He reached up and touched her neck, made it look as if he was checking her pulse, but it was comforting to her. She turned her head and looked at him, her eyes narrow, full of unshed tears, and her face dirty and pale and upset. Her make-up was a mess.

"He used me to get to you," she said. Her brows knit together. She looked devastated. "What if it didn't work? What if you hadn't cared—"

"He knew it would," Jethro interrupted shortly. Bitterly.

Jenny glanced at the team. They were busy with the usual crime scene work, pointedly ignoring the intimacy between their boss and their director. It was so dark. And now, she was beginning to notice, it was so cold.

…_his precious Shannon and Kelly…_

There were things she didn't know.

She didn't care.

"I can't live like this," she said. She drew in a breath, cleared her nose. She wiped furiously at stubborn, falling tears. And she'd fought with him just before she last saw him, too. "This is what I mean, when I said—I said I can't die with the decisions I—I—"

"You're not dead," he said gruffly.

"It feels like I am!" she burst out. Her face blanched. She looked up to the sky as if asking for strength. "I made the wrong choice."

"Jen—"

"No," she stopped him viciously. "I made the wrong choice," she said it pointedly, harshly. "And I knew it when I left you. But I was too damn stubborn and you hurt my pride," she reached up and grabbed his hand on her neck. She stroked his knuckles. "I _am_ sorry," she said softly, her voice catching in her throat. "If that means I'm weak, then I'm _weak_."

He looked at her hard, scouring the depths of her emerald eyes. He wanted to know if she was sorry for herself or sorry for what she had done. He had been a bastard. He had mocked the way she'd claimed to feel about him. But he wasn't sure she'd ever understand the damage she'd done when she left him. It was damage that Stephanie hadn't come close to healing, damage that—as much as he railed against it—had mended some when he'd seen her face again.

And when kissed her again.

And when touched her again.

And when he had seen her in misery, in tears, choking out her regret—when he'd had time to relish it and then regret some things himself.

"Damn, Jen," he swore half-heartedly. He rested his other arm over his knee and looked at her with a set jaw.

It was like there weren't two dead bodies sprawled on the grass close by. It was as if the team wasn't going about their individual business taking pictures. It was as if it was just the two of them, hidden off on the corner of Gibbs' porch in the darkening cold November night.

"Sydney gambled his life and he lost," she whispered. She drew in a breath, her voice thick and nasal. "That can't mean nothing."

Jethro sighed heavily. He reached up and rubbed his forehead. He slowly turned his fingers under Jen's and squeezed her hand, rubbing her neck with his thumb.

"You cold?"

She stared at him, confused, upset…confused.

"Don't have your coat," he pointed out gruffly. He was right. It had blood all over it still from last—was that just last night? And then—had they slept together, just the night before? And Kowalski had tried to kill her—and Turner was innocent.

"I have the coat, Jen," he said a little roughly. "Your coat. Inside, in the closet. If you want it."

So _the_ coat with _the_ letter left on _the_ plane was her coat again. And it was hers, if she wanted it. She figured that was his roundabout way of accepting her apology. Of offering a little of himself again, maybe. Though he had no reason to.

He stood up, waiting, his hands by his side. She flexed her fingers as his hand slipped out of her grip. Her hands were still shaking. She was still in shock. Somehow, though, she knew she wouldn't regret this tomorrow. Or the next day. Or next year.

She stood up, crossing her arms in front of her.

"I want it," she said hoarsely, rubbing her shoulders a little. She winced.

Jethro reached out and brushed his thumb against the healing bruise on her lip. He pulled her head towards him and pressed his lips gently to her temple, right next to her brow. Her eyelashes fluttered against his cheek.

"Jen, for the record," he said huskily. "In Paris. You know what I meant."

She did. _That'll be the day_. She did know what he meant. Someday, it might be nice to hear it. For now she understood. She understood that something haunted him—had always understood that—and she had the inkling that Ari Haswari had known it, had used it—and so hat Kowalski, in turn.

For now, she 'knew what he meant'.

Jenny smirked.

"I suppose I have Stan to thank for something," she mused grimly.

He arched an angry eyebrow at her, his hand half in her hair, half on her cheek.

"It was his idea to cage me up with you."

Leroy Jethro Gibbs scowled and narrowed his eyes. He didn't know whether the little joke was worth a laugh or not, considering the circumstances. Instead, he pressed a kiss to the corner of Jen's mouth.

Immediately, DiNozzo reminded them they weren't alone with a wolf whistle.

But it didn't matter.

Because it was a far, far better thing they got into than they had ever been in; it was a far, far better understanding they had than they had ever known.

**THE END**

**

* * *

**Robbie Turner: Scapegoat; in _Atonement_, he is falsely accused.  
Sydney Carton: Sacrifice; in A Tale of Two Cities, he dies in Henry Darney's place.  
Stanley Kowalski: The Bastard; in A Streetcar Named Desire, he is a bastard. (heheh)  
The last line of this chapter is quite famous in its original make-up. I tweaked it a bit-but thanks anyway, Charles Dickens!


End file.
